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Death rides on every passing breeze,

He lurks in every flower; Each season has its own disease,

Its peril every hour!

Our eyes have seen the rosy light

Of youth's soft cheek decay, And fate descend in sudden night

On manhood's middle day.

Our eyes have seen the steps of age

Halt feebly t'wards the tomb,
And yet shall earth our hearts engage,

And dreams of days to come?

Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know;

Where'er thy foot can tread,
The earth rings hollow from below,

And warns thee of her dead!

Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply

To truths divinely given;
The bones that underneath thee lie

Shall live for hell or heaven.

Bishop Heber. CONTENTMENT.

Fierce passions discompose the mind,

As tempests vex the sea;
But calm content and peace we find,

When, Lord, we turn to thee.

In vain by reason and by rule,

We try to bend the will;
For none but in the Saviour's school

Can learn the heavenly skill.

Since at his feet my soul lias sat,
His gracious words to hear,

Contented with my present state,
I cast on him my care.

'Art thou a sinner, soul?' he said;

'Then how canst thou complain; How light thy troubles here, if weighed

With everlasting pain.

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'If thou of murmuring would'st be cured,

Compare thy griefs with mine; Think what my love for thee endured,

And thou wilt not repine.

''Tis I appoint thy daily lot,

And I do all things well;
Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot,

And rise with me to dwell.

'In life my grace shall strength supply,

Proportioned to thy day;
At death thou still shalt find me nigh,

To wipe thy tears away.'

Thus I, who once my wretched days

In vain repining spent;
Taught in my Saviour's school of grace,

Have learned to be content.

Cowper.

FUNERAL ANTHEM.

Brother, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown.

Where tears are wiped from every eye,

And sorrow is unknown; From the burthen of the flesh,

And from care and fear released, Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er,

And borne the heavy load, But Christ hath taught thy languid feet

To reach his blest abode; Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,

Upon his father's breast, Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,

Nor doubt thy faith assail,
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ

And the Holy Spirit fail:
And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,

Whom on earth thou lovedst best, Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

'Earth to earth,' and ' dust to dust/ The solemn priest hath said:

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So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:

But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us,

Whom thou hast left behind,
May we, untainted by the world,

As sure a welcome find:
May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

Milman.

A PENITENT.

I would, but cannot sing,
Guilt has untuned my voice,
The serpent sin's envenomed sting
Has poisoned all my joys.

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