ANOTHER.

R. H.

GOD that madest Earth and Heaven,
Darkness and light!

Who the day for toil hast given,
For rest the night!

May Thine Angel-guards defend us,
Slumber sweet Thy mercy send us,

Holy dreams and hopes attend us,
This livelong night!

AT A FUNERAL.

R. H.

BENEATH Our feet and o'er our head
Is equal warning given;
Beneath us lie the countless dead,

Above us is the Heaven!

Their names are graven on the stone,
Their bones are in the clay;

And ere another day is done,
Ourselves may be as they.

Death rides on every passing breeze, He lurks in every flower;

Each season has its own disease,

Its peril every hour!

Our

eyes have seen the

rosy light

Of youth's soft cheek decay,

And fate descend in sudden night

On manhood's middle day.

Our eyes have seen the steps of age
Halt feebly towards the tomb,
And yet shall earth our hearts engage,
And dreams of days to come?

Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know;
Where'er thy foot can tread,
The earth rings hollow from below,
And warns thee of her dead!

Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply To truths divinely given ;

The bones that underneath thee lie

Shall live for Hell or Heaven!

ANOTHER.

R. H.

THOU art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb :
Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee,
And the lamp of His love is thy guide thro' the gloom!

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 enfold thee,
And sinners may die, for the SINLESS has died!

Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long;

But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on thy waking,
And the sound which thou heardst was the Seraphim's

song!

Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide;
He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee,
And Death has no sting, for the Saviour has died!

ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

R. H.

OH! SAVIOUR of the faithful dead, With whom Thy servants dwell, Though cold and green the turf is spread Above their narrow cell,—

No more we cling to mortal clay,
We doubt and fear no more,
Nor shrink to tread the darksome way
Which Thou hast trod before!

'Twas hard from those I loved to go,
Who knelt around my bed,
Whose tears bedew'd my burning brow,
Whose arms upheld my head!

As, fading from my dizzy view,
I sought their forms in vain,
The bitterness of death I knew,
And groan'd to live again.

'Twas dreadful when th' Accuser's

Assail'd my sinking heart, Recounting every wasted hour, And each unworthy part:

power