I'll tune my harp-I'll strike its wires, Though living in the strength of health, I know not but the voice of time But if uncalled, yet sure at last, Even though with locks grown hoary, O dear Redeemer! give me grace Thou, when the vault shall claim my dust, Eternal love will be my trust, Insured by Jesus' merit; And the triumphant change restore My happiness for evermore! Prior. FUNERAL HYMN. Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide to the tomb. Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side, But the wide arms of mercy are spread to unfold thee, And sinners may hope since the sinless hath died. Thou art gone to the grave! and its mansion forsaking, song. 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. Heber. PATIENCE. Though the heart that sorrow chideth, Yet, if patience still abideth, Hope shall paint her rainbow there. Hope's bright lamp her light shall borrow And from many a coming morrow, Wherefore should we sigh and languish, Since our cares so soon shall cease? And the heart that sows in anguish, Shall hereafter reap in peace. This is not a scene of pleasure, Find a dearer land than this. Anon. THE GRAVE OF NAPOLEON. The tempest is hushed, and the Eagle is dead! For ever lie folded on Helena's shore. But where is the tomb that should mark the repose, Beneath the deep shade of a mute willow only, O'er his still honoured relics pale history weeps: 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, To water the willows which mourn for him here, But tears do not speak all the anguish of grief, 'Tis deeper when pain stops the springs of the eye; When the heart is confined and deprived of relief, In the sweet balm of nature, the tear or the sigh. And the soldier still heaves in his soul that deep sigh, When he thinks on his glory, remembers his wars, And with mourning of sorrow which never can die, Still honours his name, and is proud of his scars. Immortal with man when mausoleums are rotten, While genius is honoured and conquests enhance, He shall need not the praises of the early forgotten, His fame is impressed on the bosom of France! Barren isle! that dost hold in thy sea-beaten bosom, His ashes-be proud of the treasure that's there; For pilgrims for ages shall scatter their blossom, 'Till thy deserts smile lovely, thy rocks become fair. Hulbert. CHILDHOOD. The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared! The child is born by many a pang endeared, |