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I'll tune my barp—I'll strike its wires,
My Saviour's praise to waken; His love refines my warmest fires,
And keeps my heart unshaken ; And thus melodious chords arise, And tone my feeling to the skies.
Though living in the strength of health,
Earth's noblest choice possessing,
Esteeming every blessing ;
But if uncalled, yet sure at last,
Even though with locks grown hoary,
I shall awake in glory!
Thou, when the vault shall claim my dust,
And God recall my spirit,
Insured by Jesus' merit;
Prior. FUNERAL HYMN.
Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb ; The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,
And the lamp of his love is thy guide to the tomb.
Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side, But the wide arms of mercy are spread to unfold thee,
And sinners may hope since the sinless hath died.
Thou art gone to the grave ! and its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in doubt lingered long ; But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking, And the sound which thou heard’st was the seraphim's
Thou art gone to the grave! but 'twere vain to deplore thee,
When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, and guide ; He gave
thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee, And death hath no sting since the Saviour hath died.
Though the heart that sorrow chideth,
Sink in anguish and in care ; Yet, if patience still abideth,
Hope shall paint her rainbow there.
Hope's bright lamp her light shall borrow
From religion's blessed ray,
Charm the clouds of grief away.
Wherefore should we sigh and languish,
Since our cares so soon shall cease ? And the heart that sows in anguish, Shall hereafter
This is not a scene of pleasure,
These are not the shores of bliss : We shall gain a brighter treasure,
Find a dearer land than this.
Anon. THE GRAVE OF NAPOLEON.
The tempest is hushed, and the Eagle is dead !
His thunderbolts fly and his wings clap no more ! The plumes that to war and to victory led,
For ever lie folded on Helena's shore.
But where is the tomb that should mark the repose,
Of that bright flaming comet on history's pages ? Or the shrine which the bay and the laurel crown strews,
Where the song echoes loudly—the wonder of ages ?
Beneath the deep shade of a mute willow only,
O'er his still honoured relics pale history weeps : And a letterless stone, midst its mountains so lonely,
Alone marks the spot where Napoleon sleeps.
A few heartfelt tears at his burial fell,
But no orphan, or parent, or widow, was there, And friendship alone oped its tear-crystal well,
To water the willows which mourn for him hero,
But tears do not speak all the anguish of grief,
'Tis deeper when pain stops the springs of the eye ; When the heart is confined and deprived of relief,
In the sweet balm of nature, the tear or the sigh.
And the soldier still beaves in his soul that deep sigh,
When he thinks on his glory, remembers his wars, And with mourning of sorrow which never can die,
Still honours bis name, and is proud of his scars.
Immortal with man when mausoleums are rotten,
While genius is honoured and conquests enhance, He shall need not the praises of the early forgotten,
His fame is impressed on the bosom of France !
Barren isle ! that dost hold in thy sea-beaten bosom,
His ashes-be proud of the treasure that's there ; For pilgrims for ages shall scatter their blossom, 'Till thy deserts smile lovely, thy rocks become fair.
The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared !