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Ah ! my dear Lord, how little did I know?

When their mourned loss first fixed my smart.
Thou didst but rend them from my heart,
That thou might more bestow.

SONG OF A SPIRIT.

Hark, what I tell to thee,
Nor sorrow o'er my tomb;

My spirit wanders free

It waits till thine shall come.

All pensive and alone,
I see thee sit and weep;

Thy head upon the stone,
Where my cold ashes sleep.

I watch thy speaking eyes,
I mark each silent tear;

I catch thy parting sighs,
Ere they are lost in air.

Anon. TO

Can I forget our childish days?

When life and love were young When nature's voice the heart obeys,

Ere flattery soiled the tongue: Ah! no—for then I deemed thee true, And life and love to me were new.

Can I forget those childish days?

When every thought of mine,
But sought for pleasure in thy praise,

And in thy look divine:
Ah! no—for these were happy hours,
And sorrow had not sought our bowers.

Can I forget the happy time?

When first I breathed to thee
The tale of love, and when the chime

Of thy answer came like melody,
Of distant music on my ear,
So soft, so sweet, but ah, how clear.

Ah I no, for memory has the will
To trace o'er every scene;

To tell us what we were, and still
To say—what might have been—

A record of our fate it is—

A mockery of our wretchedness.

Then since these days no more return,
Since we no more must meet;

Since memory still broods o'er the urn
Of love and friendship sweet;

Farewell, and may thine only tear

Be shed upon my lowly bier.

Anon.

ON THE DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN.

If sorrow's holiest tears could bring
Thy spirit from its native skies,—

Then might we hope that pity's wing
Would waft the hark from paradise!

But all our sorrow is unknown,

In that blessed place where thou art gone.

Farewell! Farewell! beloved shade,—

Long shall thy memory linger here, Till they that loved thee too are dead,

And mingling in another sphere;
Where death's cold hand can never tear
The ties that bound us shortly here.

Oh! happy was that change to thee,
When death appeared without a frown;

And life—and immortality—

Displayed thy bright unfading crown!

For thou wert faithful to the call,

Which raised thee as a guide to all.

Well may they weep, who round thee hung,—
The church shall long thy loss deplore;

For oh that heart is cold,—that tongue
On earth shall praise our God no more:

For thou hast joined the hosts above

That triumph through redeeming love!

No more by care and sorrow worn,

The voice reproves each dull delay; And O no more shall they who mourn,

Hear thy kind voice in sorrow's day: And who shall them conduct and guide, On life's tempestuous swelling tide?

'Still trust in God!' onr hearts may hear

The parting words—the last he gave,
When death's cold hand was lingering near,
Which brought him qnickly to the grave!
That bed from which none shall arise,
Till heaven's last thunder rends the skies.

Then, may our souls devoutly think,
How short a step divides the tomb;

We're standing on an awful brink,

And moments soon will seal our doom!

Yes! all who mourn his sudden call,

Must soon obey—it speaks to all!

Anon.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

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