Bids weep no more-O heart bereft,
How strange, to thee, that sound!
A widow o'er her only son,
Feeling more bitterly alone

For friends that press officious round.
Yet is the voice of comfort heard,

For Christ hath touch'd the bierThe bearers wait with wondering eye, The swelling bosom dares not sigh,

But all is still, twixt hope and fear.
Even such an awful soothing calm.
We sometimes see alight

On Christian mourners, while they wait
In silence, by some church-yard gate,
Their summons to the holy rite.

And such the tones of love, which break
The stillness of that hour,
Quelling th' embitter'd spirit's strife-
"The Resurrection and the Life
"Am I believe, and die no more.

Unchang'd that voice—and though not yet
The dead sit up and speak,

Answering its call; we gladlier rest
Our darlings on earth's quiet breast,

And our hearts feel they must not break.

Far better they should sleep awhile
Within the Church's shade,

Nor wake, until new heaven, new earth,
Meet for their new immortal birth,

For their abiding-place be made,

Than wander back to life, and lean
On our frail love once more.
'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows our Paradise in store.

Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on,
Through prayer unto the tomb;
Still, as ye watch life's falling leaf,
Gathering from every loss and grief
Hope of new spring and endless home.

Then cheerly to your work again,
With hearts new-brac'd and set
To run, untir'd, love's blessed race,
As meet for those, who face to face
Over the grave their Lord have met.

KEBLE.

Be glad, my Soul! and Sing amidst thy Pleasure.

FROM eastern quarters now

The sun's up-wandering,

His rays on the rock's brow

And hill's side squandering;

Be glad, my soul! and sing amidst thy pleasure,

Fly from the house of dust,

Up, with thy thanks, and trust

To heaven's azure!

O, countless as the grains

Of sand so tiny,

Measureless as the main's

Deep waters briny,

God's mercy is, which he upon me showereth!

Each morning, in my shell,

A grace immeasureable To me down-poureth.

Thou best dost understand,
Lord God! my needing,

And placed is in thy hand
My fortune's speeding,

And thou foreseest what is for me most fitting;

Be still, then, O my soul!

To manage in the whole

Thy God permitting!

May fruit the land array,

And corn for eating!

May truth e'er make its way,

With justice meeting!

Give thou to me my

share with every other,

Till down my staff I lay,

And from this world away Wend to another!

THOMAS KINGO, Trans. Anon.

Contrasts necessary for Happiness.

WHEN

HEN all the year our fields are fresh and green,

And while sweet showers and sunshine, every day,

As oft as need requireth, come between

The heavens and earth, they heedless pass away. The fullness and continuance of a blessing Doth make us to be senseless of the good; And if sometimes it fly not our possessing, The sweetness of it is not understood; Had we no winter, summer would be thought Not half so pleasing; and if tempests were not, Such comforts by a calm could not be brought;

For things, save by their opposites, appear not. Both health and wealth are tasteless unto some, And so is ease and every other pleasure, Till poor, or sick, or grieved, they become, And then they relish these in ampler measure. God, therefore, full of kind, as He is wise,

So tempereth all the favours He will do us, That we his bounties may the better prize, And make his chastisements less bitter to us. One while a scorching indignation burns

The flowers and blossoms of our hopes away, Which into scarcity our plenty turns,

And changeth new mown grass to parched hay; Anon his fruitful showers and pleasing dews, Commixed with cheerful rays, He sendeth down,

And then the barren earth her crops renews, Which with rich harvests hills and valleys

crown;

For, as to relish joys, He sorrow sends;

So comfort on temptation still attends.

GEORGE WITHER.

Come, while the Morning of thy Life is Glowing.

COME, while the blossoms of thy years are

brightest,

Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze, Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest, And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways; Come, while sweet thoughts like summer-buds unfolding,

Waken rich feelings in the careless breast, While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding,

Come and secure interminable rest!

Soon will the freshness of thy days be over,

And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown; Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover Will to the embraces of the worm have gone; Those who now love thee will have pass'd for ever, Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee; Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever,

As thy sick heart broods over years to be!