It has been said, and I believe, Though tears of natural sorrow start, "Tis mixed with pleasure when we grieve For those the dearest to the heart, From whom long-lived at length we part; As by a Christian's feelings led We lay them in their peaceful bed. Yet speak I not of those who go The allotted pilgrimage on earth, But such as tread with loftier scope We grieve to think, that they again Shall ne'er in this world's pleasure share: But sweet the thought, that this world's pain No more is theirs; that this world's care It is no more their lot to bear. And surely in this scene below We grieve to see the lifeless form, The livid cheek, the sunken eye: But sweet to think, corruption's worm And claim its kindred with the sky. Lo! where the earthen vessel lies! Aloft the unbodied tenant flies. We grieve to think, our eyes no more That form, those features loved, shall trace: But sweet it is from memory's store To call each fondly-cherished grace, And fold them in the heart's embrace. No bliss 'mid worldly crowds is bred, We grieve to see expired the race They ran, intent on works of love: Which with their better nature strove, We grieve to know, that we must roam Have gained, a fair and goodly lot, Severed from those we love, remain : 'Tis joy to hope, that we shall find, Exempt from sorrow, fear, and pain, 'Tis but like them to sink to rest, O Thou, who form'st thy creature's mind With thoughts that chasten and that cheer, Grant me to fill my space assigned For sojourning a stranger here With holy hope and filial fear: There, before Thee, the Great, the Good, With virtue clothed, with honor crowned, 66 The spirits of the just" are found: Pain flies the unmolested heart, And life in bliss unites whom death no more shall part. WHAT is true knowledge?—Is it with keen eye Is it to delve the earth, or soar the sky; Creation's wonders; and Redemption's plan; Whence came we; what to do; and whither go: This is true knowledge, and "the whole of man." THE LORD'S DAY. HAIL to the day, which He, who made the heaven, Hail to the day, when He, by whom was given Arose! That day his Church hath still confessed, The Lord's own day! to man's Creator owed, THE HOUSE O F GOD. It is the Sabbath bell, which calls to prayer, Even to the House of God, the hallowed dome, Where He who claims it bids his people come To bow before his throne, and serve Him there With prayers, and thanks, and praises. Some there are Who hold it meet to linger now at home, And some o'er fields and the wide hills to roam, And worship in the temple of the air! For me, not heedless of the lone address, Nor slack to greet my Maker on the height, DEAR is the ancient village church, which rears Buttress, and porch, and arch with mazy round Fairer spot Thou givest not, England, to the tasteful eye, Nor to the heart more soothing. Blest their lot, Knew they their bliss, who own, their dwelling nigh, Such resting-place; there, by the world forgot, In life to worship, and, when dead, to lie! THE CHURCH BELLS. WHAT varying sounds from yon gray pinnacles Natal or nuptial, in full concert swells: The deep dull toll with lingering warning tells. How much of human life those sounds comprise ; Birth, wedded love, God's service, and the tomb! Heard not in vain, if thence kind feelings rise, Such as befit our being, free from gloom Monastic, prayer that communes with the skies, And musings mindful of the final doom. THERE is a joy, which angels well may prize: To see, and hear, and aid God's worship, when Youths, matrons, maidens, join. "Like many waters;" now glad symphonies Of thanks and glory to our God; and then, What duty bids, to worship, heart and tongue; PRAYER. ERE the morning's busy ray Ere the silent evening close Your wearied eyes in sweet repose, To lift your heart and voice in prayer Be your first and latest care. He, to whom the prayer is due, From heaven his throne shall smile on you; Angels sent by Him shall tend, Your daily labor to befriend, |