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Then, as our friends no further aid supply,
Than hope's cold phrase, and courtesy's soft sigh,
We should that comfort for ourselves ensure,
Which friends could not, if we could friends procure.
Early in life, when we can laugh aloud,
There's something pleasant in a social crowd,
Who laugh with us: but will such joy remain,
When we lie struggling on the bed of pain ?
When our physician tells us with a sigh
No more on hope and science to rely,
Life's staff is useless then : with labouring breath

pray for hope divine-the staff of death.-
This is a scene, which few companions grace,
And where the heart's first favourites yield their place.
Here all the aid of man to man must end,
Here mounts the soul to her eternal Friend;
The tenderest love must here its tie gn,
And give the aspiring heart to love divine.
Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run,
Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to shun;
But, though to this our weakness may be prone,
Let's learn to live,- for we must die,-alone !




The seas are quiet, when the winds give o'er;
So calm are we, when passions are no more!
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection, from our younger eyes,
Conceal that emptiness, which age descries.
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,
As they draw near to their eternal home:
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.



How deep yon azure dies the sky,
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie;
While, through their ranks, in silver pride,
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe;
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends, to meet our eyes below.
The grounds, which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire.
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight,
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
“ Time was, like thee, they life possest,
" And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.”
Those with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose
Where toil and poverty repose.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
(The chisel's slender help to fame,
Which, ere our set of friends decay,
Their frequent steps may wear away,)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs, that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie;
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
These, all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great ;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades ;
The bursting earth unveils the shades!

All slow, and wan, and wrapt with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds ;
And all with sober accent cry,
“ Think, mortal, what it is to die.”
Now, from yon black and funeral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin,
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground!)
It sends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from among the bones ;
“When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I!
They view me like the last of things ;
They make, and then they draw my strings;
Fools, if you less provoked your fears,
No more my spectre form appears;
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a state to ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas.”
Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, covered steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the escutcheons of the dead !
Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul these forms of wo.
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their suffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering sun;
Such joy, though far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body, placed,
A few and evil years they waste:
But, when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide;
Clap the glad wing, and tower away,
And mingle with the blaze of day! Parnell.


The spirit shall return to Him,
That gave its heavenly spark ;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim,
When thou thyself art dark !
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recall’d to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb’d the grave of victory,
And took the sting from death. Campbell


DAUGHTER of Faith! awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb.
Melt and dispel, ye spectre doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul !
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day;
The strife is o'er,--the pangs of nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes with eager gaze
The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still
Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill!
Soul of the just! companion of the dead !
Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ?
Back to its heavenly source thy being goes,
Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ;
Doom'd on his airy path a while to burn,
And doom'd, like thee, to travel and return.



That day of wrath! that dreadful day!
When heaven and earth shall pass away,

power shall be the sinner's stay,
How shall he meet the dreadful day?
When shrivelling, like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread !
Swells the high trump, that wakes the dead.
Oh! on that day, that wrathful day,
When man to judgment wakes from clay,
BE THOU the trembling sinner's stay,
Though heaven and earth shall pass away.


GREAT God, what do I see and hear !

The end of things created !
The Judge of mankind doth appear

On clouds of glory seated !
The trumpet sounds! the

graves restore
The dead which they contained before !

Prepare, my soul, to meet him.

The dead in Christ shall first arise

At the last trumpet's sounding,
Caught up to meet him in the skies,

With joy their Lord surrounding.
No gloomy fears their souls dismay;
His presence sheds eternal day,
On those prepared to meet him.

Luther's Hymn.



Printed by Oliver & Boyd,
Tweeddale Court, High Strect, Edinburgh.

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