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111 tune my harp—I'll strike its wires,
My Saviour's praise to waken; His love refines my warmest fires,
And keeps my heart unshaken; And thus melodious chords arise, And tone my feeling to the skies.
Though living in the strength of health,
Earth's noblest choice possessing,
Esteeming every blessing:
But if uncalled, yet sure at last,
Even though with locks grown hoary,
That sound will come, and when 'tis past,
O dear Redeemer! give me grace
To fit me for that happy place!
Thou, when the vault shall claim my dust,
And God recall my spirit,
Insured by Jesus' merit;
Prior. FUNERAL HYMN.
Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,
Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee,
But the wide arms of mercy are spread to unfold thee,
Thou art gone to the grave! and its mansion forsaking,
But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking, And the sound which thou heard'st was the seraphim's
Thou art gone to the grave! but 'twere vain to deplore thee, When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, and guide;
He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee, And death hath no sting since the Saviour hath died.
Though the heart that sorrow chideth,
Sink in anguish and in care; Yet, if patience still abideth,
Hope shall paint her rainbow there.
Hope's bright lamp her light shall borrow
From religion's blessed ray,
Charm the clouds of grief away.
Wherefore should we sigh and languish,
And the heart that sows in anguish,
This is not a scene of pleasure,
These are not the shores of bliss: We shall gain a brighter treasure,
Find a dearer land than this.
Anon. THE GRAVE OF NAPOLEON.
The tempest is hushed, and the Eagle is dead!
His thunderbolts fly and his wings clap no more! The plumes that to war and to victory led,
For ever lie folded on Helena's shore.
But where is the tomb that should mark the repose,
Or the shrine which the bay and the laurel crown strews,
Beneath the deep shade of a mute willow only,
And a letterless stone, midst its mountains so lonely,
A few heartfelt tears at his burial fell,
But no orphan, or parent, or widow, was there,
And friendship alone oped its tear-crystal well,
But teai.3 do not speak all the anguish of grief,
When the heart is confined and deprived of relief,
And the soldier still heaves in his soul that deep sigh,
And with mourning of sorrow which never can die,
Immortal with man when mausoleums are rotten,
He shall need not the praises of the early forgotten,
Barren isle! that dost hold in thy sea-beaten bosom,
For pilgrims for ages shall scatter their blossom,
The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared t