When weakened by illness, by terror oppressed,

My pains and my terrors I offer to thee; When vainly I seek for some solace or rest, Then, Strength of the martyrs, bring comfort to me.

When my reason shall fail, and my life shall decay;

When the scenes of this world shall vanish and flee;

When sunshine and shower alike pass away, Then, Light of the blessed, shine sweetly

on me.

When heedless of earth and of all that surround me,

For pardon and mercy I'll call upon thee; When death with its fetters forever has bound me,

Then, Jesus, sweet Jesus, be Jesus to me.

When, weeping, my friends shall with fervor implore thee,

My strength, my protector, my succor to be; When, helpless and lonely, I tremble before thee,

Then, Fountain of mercy, have mercy on me.

Then, dear Lord, the dark chain of my miseries sever;

Then, Rest of the weary one, call me to thee;

Then, Crown of the just, be my portion for

ever;

Then, merciful Jesus, have mercy on me.

WALLACE YOUNG.

BLESSED ARE THE DEAD.

869

"O wie selig seid ihr doch, ihr Frommen " SIMON DACH was Professor of Poetry at Königsberg, and wrote simple, devout lyrics, breathing the spirit of the quiet scholar. He was born in 1605, and died in 1659. OH, how blest are ye whose toils are ended! Who, through death, have unto God ascended! Ye have arisen

From the cares which keep us still in prison.
We are still as in a dungeon living,
Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving;
Our undertakings

Are but toils and troubles and heart-breakings.

Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, Quiet, and set free from all our weeping;

No cross nor trial

Hinders your enjoyments with denial.

Christ has wiped away your tears forever;
Ye have that for which we still endeavor.
To you are chanted

Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted.
Ah! who would not then depart with gladness,
To inherit heaven for earthly sadness?
Who here would languish
Longer in bewailing and in anguish ?
Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that
bind us!

Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us!
With thee, the Anointed,

Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed. SIMON DACH, 1635 Translated by HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

DYING IN THE LORD.

THE hour of my departure 's come;

I hear the voice that calls me home:

At last, O Lord, let trouble cease,
And let thy servant die in peace.

The race appointed I have run,
The combat's o'er, the prize is won;
And now my witness is on high,
And now my record 's in the sky.

Not in mine innocence I trust;

I bow before thee in the dust:

And through my Saviour's blood alone
I look for mercy at thy throne.

I leave the world without a tear,
Save for the friends I held so dear;
To heal their sorrows, Lord, descend,
And to the friendless prove a Friend.

On earth, the wail of the bereaved,

Wrung from the smitten heart,
The mortal grief that rends the soul
When cherished friends depart;

In heaven, peace for the troubled ones,
Balm for the bruised and sore,
Joy of the parted, ne'er again

To part forevermore.

Oh, contrast wonderful past thought! Here, death and grief and night; There, an eternity of life

And ever new delight!

Here, mingling with its native dust,
A clod of mouldering clay
By love's reluctant hand consigned
To darkness and decay:

There, springing into perfect life,
A spirit newly born
Hailing the light that glorifies
The resurrection morn!

God speed the spirits taking wing!
Good angels guide their flight
From darkness and the shades of death
Up to the land of light!

And God be praised for him who died,
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Who broke the power of death that we
In him might live again.

JAMES EDMESTON, a London architect, was one of the largest contributors to modern hymnology, having produced nearly two thousand hymus, some of them of considerable merit. He was born Sept. 10, 1791, and died Jan 7, 1867. He was successful in hymns for children. Bred an Indepen dent, he became a member of the Church of England. WHICH is the happiest death to die? "Oh!" said one, "if I might choose, Long at the gate of bliss would I lie, And feast my spirit, ere it fly,

With bright celestial views.
Mine were a lingering death without pain,
A death which all might love to see,
And mark how bright and sweet should be
The victory I should gain!

"Fain would I catch a hymn of love
From the angel harps which ring above:
And sing it as my parting breath
Quivered and expired in death,
So that those on earth might hear
The harp-notes of another sphere,

871

And mark, when nature faints and dies,
What springs of heavenly life arise,
And gather from the death they view
A ray of hope to light them through,
When they shall be departing too."

"No," said another, "so not I;
Sudden as thought is the death I would die;
I would suddenly lay my shackles by,
Nor bear a single pang at parting,
Nor see the tear of sorrow starting,
Nor hear the quivering lips that bless me,
Nor feel the hands of love that press me,
Nor the frame with mortal terror quaking,
Nor the heart where love's soft bands are
breaking,—

ON THE DEATH OF MARGUERITE'S BROTHER, FRANCIS I.

MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, the famous Queen of Navarre, was born at Angoulême, in 1492, and after having been left a widow by the Duke of Alençon, married Henri d'Albret, King of Navarre. She wrote much, but is known best as the author of "The Heptameron," a collection of tales. She was highly educated, speaking Latin, Spanish, and Italian, and understanding Greek and Hebrew. She died in 1549. One of her books was condemned as Protestant in its teachings, and it is true that the Protestants found shelter in the territory of her husband.

LOUISA STUART COSTELLO was born in Ireland in 1815, and died April 24, 1870.

'TIS done! a father, mother, gone,
A sister, brother, torn away,
My hope is now in God alone,

Whom heaven and earth alike obey.
Above, beneath, to him is known,
The world's wide compass is his own.

I from my memory have effaced

All former joys, all kindred, friends; All honors that my station graced

I hold but snares that fortune sends:
Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast,
That we may be his own at last!

Marguerite de Valois, Queen of Navarre.
Translated by LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.

FUNERAL HYMN.

"Jam mæsta quiesce querela."

This is the celebrated funeral-hymn of CLEMENS AURelius PRUDENTIUS, of Spain, and his masterpiece. It was originally the concluding part of his tenth "Cathemerinōn," but is complete as an independent poem. After lying dormant till the sixteenth century, it arose to new life, and became (in the version, “Hört auf mit Trauern und Klagen") a favorite funeral-hymn in Protestant Germany. It reminds one of the worship in the catacombs, whose gloom was lit up with the hope of a glorious resurrection in Christ. There are German translations by Knapp, Puchta, Königsfeld, Bässler, and Schaff; and another English version, without rhymes, by Mrs. Charles, "Ah! hush now your mournful complainings"; and still another, on the basis of a German version, by Miss Catherine Winkworth, "Oh, weep not, mourn not, over this bier!"

CEASE, ye tearful mourners,
Thus your hearts to rend:
Death is life's beginning
Rather than its end.

All the grave's adornments,
What do they declare,
Save that the departed

Are but sleeping there?

What though now to darkness
We this body give ;
Soon shall all its senses

Reawake and live.

Soon shall warmth revisit
These poor bones again,
And the blood meander
Through each tingling vein;
And from its corruption
This same body soar,
With the self-same spirit
That was here of yore.
E'en as duly scattered
By the sower's hand
In the fading autumn
O'er the fallow land,
Nature's seed, decaying,
First in darkness dies,
Ere it can in glory

Renovated rise.

O divinest period!

Speed upon thy way;

O eternal Justice !

Make no more delay.

When shall love in glory

Its fruition see?

When shall hope be lost in
Immortality?

PRUDENTIUS, 405. Translated by
EDWARD CASWALL

NO, NO, IT IS NOT DYING.

"Non, ce n'est pas mourir."

No, no, it is not dying

To go unto our God,
This gloomy 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, Forevermore possessing

The favor 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.

THE BELIEVER'S DYING TESTAMENT.

"I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand."- 2 TIM. iv. 6.

"Ich habe Lust zu scheiden."

WEARY, waiting to depart,
My spirit longs for flight;
Still I gaze with throbbing heart
To Zion's fields of light.
When his summons shall be sent,
No dweller here may know -
To my dying testament,

Friends, hearken, ere I go!

God, my Father, to thy hand
This spirit I bequeath;
Guide it through this desert land,

And through the gates of death.
By thy gift this soul was mine-
Take it to thyself again,
So shall it forever thine

In life and death remain.

What, O Jesus, shall I make

An offering to thee?

Ah! these sins, these sorrows take,

So grievous, Lord, to me.

In the crimson stream that flows,
My Saviour, from thy side,
Thus my faith each burden throws,
Hide them, forever, hide!

O thou Spirit of all might!

I yield thee my last sigh,
And to thee, in death's dread fight,
I send my latest cry!

As life's pulses steal away,
Oh, speak peace to me!

And let my fainting soul that day
Nothing save Jesus see.

Angels, take these flowing tears From my pale cheeks away!