When with sad footsteps memory roves
Mid smitten joys, and buried loves,---
When sleep my tearful pillow flies,
And dewy morning drinks my sighs,---
Still to thy promise, Lord, I flee,

That as my day, my strength shall be.”

One trial more must yet be past;
One pang---the keenest and the last :
And when, with brow convulsed and pale,
My feeble, grieving heart-strings fail,
Oh Father! grant my soul to see

That “as her day, her strength shall be.”

THE END.

C. WHITTINGHAM, TOOKS COURT,

CHANCERY LANE.

ERRATUM.

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