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I meet him at the lowly tomb;
I weep where Jesus wept before;
And there, above the grave's dark gloom,
I see him rise-and weep no more.
Does friendship gild my favor'd state,
O faithful to the last! be mine
Thy blessed course to emulate,
And pray for truth, for love like thine !
Then ask me not to live, and be
A stranger to that generous fiame,
Which warms, and, to eternity,
Must warm my soul at Jesus' name,
ORIENTAL ILLUSTRATION OF A CHRIS
FORGIVE thy foes ;—nor that alone,
Their evil deeds with good repay,
Fill those with joy who leave thee none,
And kiss the hand upraised to slay.
So does the fragrant sandal* bow,
In meek forgiveness, to its doom;
And o'er the axe, at every blow,
Sheds in abundance rich perfume.
UPON THE DEATH OF A WIFE.
WHOE'ER, like me, with trembling anguish brings
His dearest earthly treasure to these springs ;
Whoe'er, like me, to soothe distress and pain,
Shall court these salutary springs in vain,
Condemn’d, like me, to hear the faint reply,
To mark the fading cheek, the sinking eye,
From the chill brow to wipe the damps of death,
And watch, in dumb despair, the shortening breath ;
If chance should bring him to this humble line,
Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine,
Ordain'd to lose the partner of my breast,
Whose virtue warm’d me, and whose beauty bless’d,
Framed every tie that binds the heart to prove,
Her duty friendship, and her friendship love.
But yet, remembering that the parting sigh
Appoints the just to slumber, not to die,
The starting tear I check’d, I kiss'd the rod, -
And not to earth resign'd her, but to God!
Ler deepest silence all around
Its peaceful shelter spread;
So shall that living word abound,
The word that wakes the dead.
How sweet to wait upon the Lord
In stillness and in prayer ! What though no preacher speak the word,
A minister is there :
A minister of wondrous skill,
True graces to impart;
He teaches all the Father's will,
And preaches to the heart.
He dissipates the coward's fears,
And bids the coldest glow;
He speaks, and lo! the softest tears
Of deep contrition flow.
He knows to bend the heart of steel,
He bows the loftiest soul;
O'er all we think and all we feel,
How matchless his control!
And ah! how precious is his love,
In tenderest touches given; It whispers of the bliss above,
And stays the soul on heaven.
From mind to mind in streams of joy
The holy influence spreads ; ’T is peace, 't is praise, without alloy,
For God that influence sheds.
To thee, O God, we still will pray,
And praise thee as before;
For this, thy glorious gospel-day,
Teach us to praise thee more.
WEEP, mourner, for the joys that fade
Like evening lights away-
For hopes, that, like the stars decay'd,
Have left thy mortal clay.
Yet clouds of sorrow will dispart,
And brilliant skies be given;
And though on earth the tear may start,
Yet bliss awaits the holy heart
Amid the bowers of heaven;
Where songs of praise are ever sung,
To angel harp, by angel tongue.
Weep, mourner, for the friends that pass
Into the lonesome grave,
As breezes sweep the wither'd grass
Along the whelming wave;
Yet though thy pleasures may depart,
And darksome days be given,
And lonely though on earth thou art,
Yet bliss awaits the holy heart,
When friends rejoin in heaven, Where streams of joy glide ever on, Around the Lord's eternal throne.
How sweet and solemn, all alone,
With reverent steps, from stone to stone
In a small village church-yard lying,
O'er intervening flowers to move,
And, as we read the names unknown,
Of young and old, to judgment gone,
And hear, in the calm air above,
Time onwards softly flying,
To meditate, in Christian love,
Upon the dead and dying !
Such is the scene around me now:
A little church-yard on the brow
Of a green, pastoral hill :
Its sylvan village sleeps below,
And faintly, here, is heard the flow
Of Woodburn's summer rill;
A place where all things mournful meet,
And, yet, the sweetest of the sweet,
The stillest of the still !
With what a pensive beauty fall
Across the mossy, mouldering wall