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“Hast thou felt the mourner's part
“Fear'st thou now thy failing heart?
“Bear thee on, beloved of God,
“Tread the path thy SAviour trod;
“He the Tempter's power hath known,
“He hath pour'd the garden groan.

“Child of Heaven, by me restor'd,
“Love thy SAviour, serve thy Lord;
“Seal’d with that mysterious name,
“Bear the cross, and scorn the shame;
“Then, like me, thy conflict o'er,
“Thou shalt rise to sleepino more:
“Partner of my purchas'd throne,
“One in joy, in glory one.”

Intended as a Supplement to the above, when the latter Stanzas were supposed to be lost.

Rev. Thomas Bowdler.

CHILD of Wrath, and heir of woe,
Friend of Heaven's deadly foe,
Does thy fainting spirit fail,
Shuddering at Death's gloomy vale
I have stretched My arm to save,
Have won the victory from the grave;
Have shed a light o'er Death's dark gloom,
Beaming from the broken tomb.

Child of weakness, dost thou fear
Pain, or grief, or scornful jeer *
On Me, thy pattern, fix thine eye,
Sinking low, but risen high.
I have borne each hateful name,
Endured the cross, despised the shame
Tread the path thy Saviour trod,
Know, obey, and love thy God.

Child of grief—do terrors rise?
Swell with tears thy downcast eyes 2
Feels thy heart sin's galling load,
And the holy wrath of GoD 2
I have known temptation's power,
Have feared—have felt the trying hour.
Trembling mourner, look on Me;
I, who suffered, plead for thee.

Child of GoD, by sorrow tried,
Chastened, humbled, purified;
When thy latest hour draws near,
Canst thou banish doubt and fear *
Fainting o'er the opening grave
Canst thou trust My power to save *
Servant well thy work is done—
Soldier rest, thy battle's won.

Child of glory—lift thine eyes;
View by faith the promised prize,
Join the sainted choirs that sing
Praise to heaven's eternal King.

I, who called thee once to share
My yoke, My cross of death to bear,
Call thee now to share a throne,
As I My Father's, thou My own.

ON THE SPRING.

The Sentiment from the divine Herbert.
Bp. Horne.

SweeT day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
Bridal of earth and sky,

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou, alas ! must die.

Sweet rose, in air whose odours wave,
And colour charms the eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou, alas ! must die.

Sweet Spring, of days and roses made,
Whose charms for beauty vie,

Thy days depart, thy roses fade,
Thou too, alas ! must die.

Be wise then, Christian, while you may, For swiftly time is flying;

The thoughtless man, that laughs to-day, To-morrow will be dying,

TRIUMPHS OF FAITH.
From Bible Rhymes.—Mrs. H. Moore.

Thy triumphs, Faith, we need not take
Alone from the blest martyr's stake;
In scenes obscure, no less we see
That Faith is a reality;
An evidence of things not seen,
A substance firm whereon to lean.

Go, search the cottager's lone room,
The day scarce piercing thro’ the gloom;
The Christian on his dying bed, -
Unknown, unletter'd, hardly fed;
No flattering witnesses attend,
To tell how glorious was his end;
Save in the book of life, his name
Unheard, he never dreamt of fame;
No human consolation near,
No voice to soothe, no friend to cheer;
Of every earthly stay bereft,
And nothing, -but his SAviour, left.

Fast sinking to his kindred dust,
The Word of Life is still his trust;
The joy God's promises impart
Lies like a cordial at his heart;
Unshaken Faith its strength supplies,
He loves, believes, adores, and dies'

FROM THE SCEPTIC.—Mrs. Hemans.

O say, cold sophist l if by thee bereft
Of that high hope, to misery what were left,
When o'er our heads the desolating blast . .
Fraught with inscrutable decrees hath pass'd,
And the stern pow'r who seeks the noblest prey
Hath call'd our fairest and our best away ?
And thou, just lent thy gladden'd isles to bless,
Then snatch'd from earth with all thy loveliness,
With all a nation's blessings on thy head,
O England's flower wert gather'd to the dead.
But thou didst teach us. Thou to ev'ry heart
Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart
When fled the hope thro' all thy pangs which
smil'd,
When thy young bosom, o'er thy lifeless child,
Yearn'd with vain longing, still thy patient eye,
To its last light, beam'd holy constancy
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast,
Amidst those agonies, thy first and last,
Thy pale lip quivering with convulsive throes
Breath'd not a plaint, and settled in repose;
While bow'd thy royal head to Him, whose power
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour,
Who from the brightest vision of a throne,
Love, glory, empire, claim'd thee for his own |
“It is the will of GoD !”—yet, yet we hear
The words which closed thy beautiful career;
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode,
But for that thought,-‘‘It is the will of God.”

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