673. DEATH: a sleep.

ASLEEP in Jesus! blessed sleep,
From which none ever wakes to weep,
A calm and undisturb'd repose,
Unbroken by the last of foes!

Asleep in Jesus! oh, how sweet
To be for such a slumber meet!
With holy confidence to sing

That death hath lost his venom'd sting.

Asleep in Jesus! peaceful rest,
Whose waking is supremely blest ;
No fear, no woe, shall dim that hour,
That manifests the Saviour's power.
Asleep in Jesus! oh for me
May such a blissful refuge be;
Securely shall my ashes lie,

Waiting the summons from on high!

Asleep in Jesus! time nor space
Debars this precious hiding-place;
On Indian plains, or Lapland snows,
Believers find the same repose.
Asleep in Jesus! far from thee
Thy kindred and their graves may be ;
But thine is still a blessed sleep,
From which none ever wakes to weep!
Margaret Mackay.

674 DEATH. Best time for
AND could we choose the time, and choose aright,
'Tis best to die, our honour at the height.
When we have done our ancestors no shame,
Bat served our friends, and well secured our fame;
Then should we wish our happy life to close,
And leave no more for fortune to dispose ;
So should we make our death a glad relief
From future shame, from sickness, and from grief:
Enjoying while we live the present hour,
And dying in our excellence and flower.

Then round our death-bed every friend should run,
And joyous of our conquest early won:
While the malicious world with envious tears,
Should grudge our happy end, and wish it theirs.

676. DEATH. Chamber of

THE death-bed of the just! is yet undrawn
By mortal hands; it merits a Divine:
Angels should paint it; angels ever there,
There on a post of honour and of joy.

The chamber where the good man meets his fate
Is privileged beyond the common walk

Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.
Here, tired dissimulation drops her mask;
Through life's grimace, that mistress of the scene!
Here, real and apparent are the same.

You see the man; you see his hold on heaven,

If sound his virtue. . . .

Heaven waits not the last moment; owns her friends
On this side death; and points them out to men:
A lecture silent, but of sovereign power!
To vice, confusion-and to virtue, peace. - Young.

677. DEATH: comes to all.

Lo now my glory smear'd in dust and blood!
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Ev'n now forsake me; and of all my lands
Is nothing left me, but my body's length!
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?
And live we how we can, yet die we must.

Shakespeare.

From earth all came, to earth must all return,
Frail as the cord, and brittle as the urn.-Prior.

Since every man who lives is born to die,
And none can boast sincere felicity,
With equal mind what happens let us bear,
Nor joy nor grieve for things beyond our care.
Like pilgrims to the appointed place we tend ;
The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
Dryden.

The best, the dearest fav'rite of the sky
Must taste that cup; for man is born to die.

The black camel death kneeleth once at each door, And a mortal must mount to return nevermore. Oriental, tr. by W. R. Alger.

678. DEATH: comfort for the dying. ALONE! to land alone upon that shore! With no one sight that we have seen before; Things of a different hue,

And the sounds all new,

And fragrances so sweet, the soul may faint;
Alone! Oh that first hour of being a saint!

Alone! to land alone upon that shore!
On which no wavelets lisp, no billows roar ;
Perhaps no shape of ground,
Perhaps no sight or sound,

No form of earth our fancies to arrange,
But to begin alone that mighty change!

Alone! to land alone upon that shore!
Knowing so well we can return no more!
No voice or face of friend,
None with us to attend

Our disembarking on that awful strand,
But to arrive alone in such a land!

Alone! to land alone upon that shore!
To begin alone to live for evermore!
To have no one to teach
The manners or the speech

Of that new life, or put us at our ease,—
Oh that we might die in pairs or companies!

Alone? No! God hath been there long before;
Eternally hath waited on that shore

For us who were to come

To our eternal home.

And He hath taught His angels to prepare
In what way we are to be welcomed there.

Like one that waits and watches, He hath sat
As if there were none else for whom to wait-
Waiting for us, for us

Who keep Him waiting thus,

And who bring less to satisfy His love
Than any other of the souls above.

Alone? The God we know is on that shore,
The God of whose attractions we know more
Than of those who may appear
Nearest and dearest here.

Oh is He not the life-long Friend we know
More privately than any friend below?

Alone? The God we trust is on that shore; The faithful One, whom we have trusted more In trials and in woes

Than we have trusted those

On whom we lean'd most in our earthly strife:
Oh we shall trust Him more in that new life!
Alone? The God we love is on that shore ;
Love not enough, yet whom we love far more,
And whom we've loved all through,
And with a love more true

Than other loves,-yet we shall love far more:
True love of Him begins upon that shore.

So not alone we land upon that shore; 'Twill be as though we had been there before; We shall meet more we know

Than we can meet here below,

And find our rest, like some returning dove,
And be at home at once with our Eternal Love!
Faber.

679. DEATH. Comfort in

WILL toys amuse, when med'cines cannot cure?
When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes
Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight,
As lands and cities, with their glittering spires,
To the poor shatter'd bark by sudden storm
Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there?
Will toys amuse? No: thrones will then be toys,
And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale.

Young.

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.
Goldsmith.

That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown dark.-Moore.

680. DEATH: conquered.

IN the bonds of Death He lay,

Who for our offence was slain:
But the Lord is risen to-day,

Christ hath brought us life again!
Wherefore let us all rejoice,
Singing loud, with cheerful voice:
Hallelujah!

Of the sons of men was none

Who could break the bonds of Death: Sin this mischief dire had done,

Innocent was none on earth; Wherefore Death grew strong and bold, Would all men in his prison hold: Hallelujah!

Jesus Christ, God's only Son,

Came at last our foe to smite;

All our sins away hath done,

Done away Death's power and right;
Only the form of Death is left,
Of his sting he is bereft :
Hallelujah!

That was a wondrous war I trow,
When Life and Death together fought;
But Life hath triumph'd o'er his foe,

Death is mock'd and set at nought; 'Tis even as the Scripture saith,

Christ through death has conquer'd Death: Hallelujah!

The rightful Paschal Lamb is He,

On whom alone we all must live, Who to death upon the tree,

Himself in wondrous love did give. Faith strikes His blood upon the door, Death sees, and dares not harm us more: Hallelujah!-Martin Luther.

681. DEATH. Contemplating

YES, 'tis the hand
Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,
Slow sapping the warm current of existence.
My moments now are few-the sand of life
Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little,
And the last fleeting particle will fall
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.

Come, then, sad Thought, and let us meditate,
While meditate we may. We have now
But a small portion of what men call time
To hold communion; for even now the knife,
The separating knife, I feel divide

The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.
Yes, I must die-I feel that I must die;
And though to me has life been dark and dreary,
Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive,
And disappointment still pursued her blandishments,
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me
As I contemplate the dim gulf of Death,
The shuddering void, the awful blank-futurity.
Ay, I had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme
Of earthly happiness-romantic schemes,
And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard
To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps,
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades,
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion.
Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry?
Oh! none; another busy brood of beings
Will shoot up in the interim ; and none
Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets
Of busy London: some short bustle's caused,

A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, And all's forgotten.--H. K. White.

682. DEATH. Court of

FOR within the hollow crown,

That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps Death his court; and there the antick sits
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,

As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable: and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his castle-walls, and farewell king!
Shakespeare.

683. DEATH.

Desire for

To languish for his native air
Can the poor wandering exile cease?
The tired his wish of rest forbear?
The tortured help desiring ease?
The slave no more for freedom sigh,
Or I no longer pine to die?
As shipwreck'd mariners desire

With eager grasp to reach the shore;
As hirelings long, to obtain their hire,
And veterans wish their warfare o'er;
I languish from this earth to flee,
And gasp for immortality.-Charles Wesley.

684. DEATH: dreadful to the worldling. How shocking must thy summons be, O Death! To him that is at ease in his possessions, Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come! In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement, Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks On all she's leaving, now no longer hers! A little longer, yet a little longer, Oh, might she stay, to wash away her stains, And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight! Her very eyes weep blood, and every groan She heaves is big with horror; but the foe, Like a stanch murderer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close through every lane of life, Nor misses once the track, but presses on, Till, forced at last to the tremendous verge, At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.—Blair.

685. DEATH. Duty the best preparation for IF I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun

Or a short day's;

Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait If Thou come late!

686. DEATH. Early

LAST night, on coughing slightly, with sharp pain
There came arterial blood, and with a sigh

Of absolute grief I cried in bitter vein,
That drop is my death-warrant: I must die.
Poor, meagre life is mine, meagre and poor!
Rather a piece of childhood thrown away;
An adumbration faint; the overture

To stifled music; year that ends in May;

The sweet beginning of a tale unknown,—-
All its deep rich vermilion crush'd and kill'd
I' th' bud by frost :-Thus in false fear I cried,
Forgetting that to abolish death Christ died.

Gray.

687. DEATH: encouragement for the dying.
HAPPY Soul! thy days are ended,
All thy mourning days below:
Go, by angel guards attended,
To the sight of Jesus go!
Waiting to receive thy spirit,

Lo, the Saviour stands above,
Shows the purchase of His merit,
Reaches out the crown of love!

Struggle through thy latest passion
To thy dear Redeemer's breast,
To His uttermost salvation,

To His everlasting rest!
For the joy He sets before thee,
Bear a momentary pain;
Die, to live the life of glory;
Suffer, with thy Lord to reign!
Charles Wesley.

688. DEATH. Equality in

WHAT is death? 'Tis to be free,
No more to love or hope or fear,
To join the great equality;

All, all alike are humbled there.
The mighty grave

Wraps lord and slave;

Nor pride nor poverty dares come

Within that refuge-house-the tomb.-Croly.

It is a monitory truth, I ween,

That, turning up the ashes of the grave, One can discern no difference between The richest sultan and the poorest slave. Oriental, tr. by W. R. Alger,