When mortal man resigns his breath,
'Tis God directs the stroke of death;
Casual howe'er the stroke appear,
He sends the fatal messenger.
The keys are in that Hand Divine;
That Hand must first the warrant sign,
And arm the death, and wing the dart
Which doth His message to our heart.
Charles Wesley.

733. DEATH. Readiness for

As precious gums are not for lasting fire,
They but perfume the temple, and expire ;
So was she soon exhaled, and vanish'd hence,
A short, sweet odour, of a vast expense.
She vanish'd, we can scarcely say she died;
For but a now did heaven and earth divide;
She pass'd serenely with a single breath;
This moment perfect health, the next was death:
One sigh did her eternal bliss assure;

So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure.
As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue;
Or, one dream pass'd, we slide into a new;
So close they follow, such wild order keep,
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep :
So softly death succeeded life in her:

She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
No pains she suffer'd, nor expired with noise;
Her soul was whisper'd out with God's still voice;
As an old friend is beckon'd to a feast,
And treated like a long-familiar guest.
He took her as He found, but found her so,
As one in hourly readiness to go:

E'en on that day, in all her trim prepared ;
As early notice she from heaven had heard,
And some descending courier from above
Had given her timely warning to remove;
Or counsell'd her to dress the nuptial room,
For on that night the Bridegroom was to come.
He kept His hour, and found her where she lay
Clothed all in white, the livery of the day.

734. DEATH. Readiness for

Dryden.

A WAND'RER I've been, and have travell'd for years, By the stage-coach, the steam-boat, the train;

I have known joyful meetings, have shed parting tears,

With friends I might ne'er meet again.

And I've learn'd-let my farewells be joyous or sad— No haste or distraction to show,

But with baggage pre-check'd, and with passage prepaid,

To have nothing to do but to go.

The loiterer, when over the iron-clad track
The train is heard coming apace,

For his ticket will clamour, and urge for his check,
In a whirl of impatient distress;

While others, more timeful, with undisturb'd mien,
Will composedly pace to and fro,

Or, quietly seated, will wait for the train,
With nothing to do but to go.

Oh! thus-I have thought-when we're call'd to depart

For the land whence we never return,
May we feel we are fully prepared for the start,
When the death-sounding note we discern.
With our ticket secured, and our cares all at rest,
No disquieting thoughts may we know,
But tranquilly waiting be found at the last,
With nothing to do but to go.-T. D. James.

735. DEATH: rebukes ambition.

ILL-WEAVED ambition, how much art thou shrunk!
When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound:
But now two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough.-Shakespeare.

O mighty Cæsar! dost thou lie so low?
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,
Shrunk to this little measure?-Shakespeare.

Why should man's high aspiring mind

Burn in him with so proud a breath;
When all his haughty views can find

In this world, yield to death;
The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise,

The rich, the poor, and great and small, Are each but worms' anatomies,

To strew his quiet hall.-Marvel.

736. DEATH. Rejoicing at

THERE is weeping on earth for the lost!

There is bowing in grief to the ground! But rejoicing and praise 'mid the sanctified host, For a spirit in Paradise found! Though brightness hath pass'd from the earth, Yet a star is new-born in the sky,

745. DEATH: the believer's enfranchisement. THE Apostle sleeps, -a light shines in the prison,— An angel touch'd his side,

'Arise,' he said, and quickly he hath risen, His fetter'd arms untied.

The watchmen saw no light at midnight gleaming,
They heard no sound of feet;

The gates fly open, and the saint, still dreaming,
Stands free upon the street.

So when the Christian's eyelid droops and closes
In Nature's parting strife,

A friendly angel stands where he reposes
To wake him up to life.

He gives a gentle blow, and so releases

The spirit from its clay;

From sin's temptations, and from life's distresses,

He bids it come away.

It rises up, and from its darksome mansion It takes its silent flight,

And feels its freedom in the large expansion Of heavenly air and light.

746. DEATH: the end of cares.

DUNCAN is in his grave;

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well:

Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,

Can touch him further.-Shakespeare.

Death is the port where all may refuge find,
The end of labour, entry unto rest;
Death hath the bounds of misery confined,
Whose sanctuary shrouds affliction best.
Earl of Stirling.

To die is landing on some silent shore,
Where billows never break, nor tempests roar ;
Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis o'er.

When I rise again to life,

Garth.

From the tranquil sleep of death, And, released from earthly strife, Breathe that morning's balmy breath, I shall wake to other thought : The race is run, the fight is fought; All the pilgrim's cares are dreams, When that dawn of morning gleams! Klopstock.

747. DEATH: the end of our exile.

FROM Nature's continent, immensely wide,
Immensely bless'd, this little isle of life,
This dark incarcerating colony,
Divides us.

Happy day that breaks our chain;
That manumits; that calls from exile home;
That leads to Nature's great metropolis,
And readmits us, through the guardian hand
Of elder brothers, to our Father's throne. - Young.

748. DEATH: the hour of Hope's greatest triumphs.

UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn,
When soul to soul and dust to dust return,
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour.
Oh, then thy kingdom comes! Immortal power!
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey

The morning dream of life's eternal day :

Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,
And all the phoenix spirit burns within !—Campbell.

749. DEATH: the soul's parting. SHE sat within Life's banquet-hall at noon, When word was brought unto her secretly, 'The Master cometh onward quickly; soon Across the threshold He will call for thee.'

Then she rose up to meet him at the door,
But turning, courteous, made a farewell brief
To those that sat around. From Care and Grief
She parted first. Companions sworn and true
Have ye been ever to me; but for friends
I knew ye not till later, and did miss
Much solace through that error; let this kiss,
Late known and prized, be taken for amends:
Thou, too, kind, constant Patience, with thy slow
Sweet counsels aiding me; I did not know
That ye were angels, until you display'd

Your wings for flight; now bless me!' But they said,
We blest thee long ago.'

Then turning unto twain

That stood together, tenderly and oft

She kiss'd them on their forehead, whispering soft,
'Now must we part; yet leave me not before
Ye see me enter safe within the door;
Kind bosom-comforters, that by my side
The darkest hour found ever closest bide,
A dark hour waits me, ere for evermore,
Night, with its weariness, be overpast;
Stay with me till I cross the threshold o'er.'
So Faith and Hope stay'd by her till the last ;

But giving both her hands

To one that stood the nearest-‘Thou and I
May pass together; for the holy bands
God knits on earth are never loosed on high.
Long have I walk'd with thee; thy name arose
E'en in my sleep, and sweeter than the close
Of music was thy voice; for thou wert sent
To lead me homewards from my banishment
By devious ways, and never hath my heart
Swerved from thee, though our hands were wrung

apart

By spirits sworn to sever us; above

Soon shall I look upon thee as thou art.' So she cross'd o'er with Love.

750. DEATH: the surrender of the soul to Christ.

HE at Venice gave

His body to that pleasant country's earth, And his pure soul unto his captain Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long.

Shakespeare.

751. DEATH: the universal conqueror.

THUS yields the cedar to the axe's edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle,
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept ;
Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading tree,
And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind.
Shakespeare.

But yesterday the word of Cæsar might
Have stood against the world: now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.

Shakespeare.

Death levels all things in his march,
Nought can resist his mighty strength;
The palace proud,—triumphal arch,

Shall mete their shadow's length;
The rich, the poor, one common bed

Shall find in the unhonour'd grave,
Where weeds shall crown alike the head
Of tyrant and of slave.-Marvel.
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung:
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.

Pope.

The prince, who kept the world in awe, The judge, whose dictate fix'd the law, The rich, the poor, the great, the small, Are levell'd death confounds them all.

Gay.

Where the prime actors of the last year's scene;
Their post so proud, their buskin, and their plume?
How many sleep, who kept the world awake
With lustre and with noise !- Young.

All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades,
Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind;
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream;
The man we celebrate must find a tomb,
And we that worship him, ignoble graves.
Cowper.

Can this be death? then what is life or death?
'Speak!' but he spoke not: wake!' but still he

slept :

But yesterday, and who had mightier breath?
A thousand warriors by his word were kept
In awe he said, as the centurion saith,
'Go,' and he goeth; 'come,' and forth he stepp'd.
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb,
And now nought left him but the muffled drum.
Byron.

752. DEATH: the universal conqueror.

THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings;

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill;

But their strong nerves at last must yield :
They tame but one another still;
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar, now,

See where the victor victim bleeds!
All heads must come

To the cold tomb!

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.—Shirley.

753. DEATH: to the believer there is no death.

IT is not death to die,

To leave this weary road,

And 'midst the brotherhood on high
To be at home with God.

It is not death to close

The eye long dimm'd by tears,
And wake in glorious repose,
To spend eternal years.

It is not death to bear

The wrench that sets us free

From dungeon chain, to breathe the air
Of boundless liberty.

It is not death to fling
Aside this sinful dust,

And rise, on strong, exulting wing,
To live among the just.

Jesus, Thou Prince of Life!
Thy chosen cannot die;
Like Thee, they conquer in the strife,

To reign with Thee on high.
Malan, tr. by Bethune.

No, no, it is not dying,

To go unto our God;
The glowing earth forsaking,
Our journey homeward taking
Along the starry road.
No, no, it is not dying,

Heaven's citizen to be;
A crown immortal wearing,
And rest unbroken sharing,
From care and conflict free.

No, no, it is not dying,

To hear this gracious word, 'Receive a Father's blessing, For evermore possessing

The favour of thy Lord.'

No, no, it is not dying,

The Shepherd's voice to know;
His sheep He ever leadeth,
His peaceful flock He feedeth,
Where living pastures grow.

No, no, it is not dying,
To wear a lordly crown;
Among God's people dwelling,
The glorious triumph swelling
Of Him whose sway we own.

Oh, no, this is not dying,

Thou Saviour of mankind!
There, streams of love are flowing,
No hindrance ever knowing;
Here, drops alone we find.

Malan, tr. by R. P. Dunn,

754. DEATH: to the believer there is no death. THE star is not extinguish'd when it sets

Upon the dull horizon; it but goes
To shine in other skies, then reappear

In ours, as fresh as when it first arose.
The river is not lost, when, o'er the rock,
It pours its flood into the abyss below :
Its scatter'd force re-gathering from the shock,
It hastens onward with yet fuller flow.
The bright sun dies not, when the shading orb
Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray;

It still is shining on; and soon to us

Will burst undimm'd into the joy of day.

The lily dies not, when both flower and leaf

Fade, and are strew'd upon the chill, sad ground; Gone down for shelter to its mother-earth,

'Twill rise, re-bloom, and shed its fragrance round. The dew-drop dies not, when it leaves the flower, And passes upward on the beam of morn; It does but hide itself in light on high,

To its loved flower at twilight to return.

The fine gold has not perish'd, when the flame
Seizes upon it with consuming glow;

In freshen'd splendour it comes forth anew,

To sparkle on the monarch's throne or brow.

Thus nothing dies, or only dies to live:

Star, stream, sun, flower, the dew-drop, and the gold;

Each goodly thing, instinct with buoyant hope,
Hastes to put on its purer, finer mould.

Thus in the quiet joy of kindly trust,

We bid each parting saint a brief farewell; Weeping, yet smiling, we commit their dust To the safe keeping of the silent cell.