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BY REV. HUGH HUTTON.
Where the hand of death was stealing;
As if heaven were its bliss revealing.
And I heard her tongue speak an angel's name,
To welcome his peaceful greeting;
But the pulse more faintly was beating.
I beheld that loved one sink to rest,
Like a wearied seraph sleeping ;-
Whence she'll wake without pain or weeping.
I look'd on the mourning friends around
Their tears were not those of anguish;
When they saw her no longer languish.
Speak words of pious trusting;
Faith beamed, though the heart was bursting.
Oh, yes! there's a world more sure more bright,
Than this valley of pain and sorrow,
When we wake on the glorious morrow.
THOU HAST GONE FROM ME, MY SISTER.
“Thou hast gone from me" my sister,
Thy voice no more I hear,
A brighter home to cheer.
Beside our lone blue stream,
In fancy's pleasing dream.
And memory brings the happy hours,
We passed in days long gone,
Without one wounding thorn.
Their leaves are round me strown,
And I am left alone.
That must gather round my brow,
Her venomed arrow throw.
Who love my joys to share,
With spirits light as air-
When adverse storms arise,
Like stars in cloudless skies.
Shine brighter ʼmid the gloom,
And scenes beyond the tomb.
And still I hear thee say,
Freed from this suffering clay.-
And sorrows flee away,
HANNAH. New Jersey, Oct. 1, 1830.
UNCLOUDED HOURS. Lines addressed to a friend who envied the author's perpetual
Are always unclouded and gay;
That fortune has strewed in my way,
We smile through the sorrows we feel;
The wounds which they never can heal.
Our moments of mirth may be many,
And hope half our sorrows beguile,
Whose features wear ever a smile.
Though cheerfulness brightens the scene,
Though bitter the potion within.
A story of sorrow and wo;
Where dangers lie lurking below;
The cheek and the eye may be drest,
In secret o'ershadow the breast.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
“Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry? Oh! none :
H. K. White.
No, Henry, no! thy name shall live,
Shall worth like thine neglected lie,
With tears of truest sorrow yet,
Yes, on eternity's bright shore,
Why should the envious angel death,
Was there no spot for thee to toil,
A mind so pure, so great as thine,
Thy home was in a purer sphere;
THE HOLY SEPULCHRE.
How sweet, in the musings of faith, to repair
To the garden where Mary delighted to rove; To sit by the tomb, where she breath'd her fond prayer,
And paid the sad tribute of sorrow and love; To see the bright beam which disperses her fear,
As the Lord of her soul, breaks the bars of his prison, And the voice of the angel salutes her glad ear
The Lord is a captive no more: “He is risen !"
0! Saviour, as oft as our footsteps we bend
In penitent sadness to weep at thy grave,
Be ready to comfort, “be mighty to save.”
If there we may meet with the Lord of our love; Contented with Mary to sorrow below,
If, with her, we may drink of thy fountains above