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On the deathlefs page, words half fo fage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honour?
The hill-fide for his pall,
To lie in state while angels wait,
With ftars for tapers tall;

The dark rock-pines, like toffing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,

And God's own hand, in that lovely land,
To lay him in the grave?

In that deep grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again-moft wondrous thought!

Before the judgment day;

And ftand with glory wrapped around,

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the ftrife that won our life,
Through Chrift th' Incarnate God.

O filent tomb in Moab's land,

O dark Beth-Peor's hill,

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be ftill!
God hath His myfteries of grace,
Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the facred fleep

Of him He loved fo well.*

* The Editor regrets his inability to give the name of the author of these lines, which form one of the most exquisitely beautiful odes in the English language.

V.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

OT a drum was heard, not a funeral

[graphic]

note,

As his corpfe to the ramparts we hurried;

Not a foldier difcharged his farewell

fhot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The fods with our bayonets turning,
By the ftruggling moonbeam's mifty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No ufelefs coffin confined his breaft,

Nor in fheet nor in fhroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his reft,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of forrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

[head,

That the foe and the ftranger would tread o'er his And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold afhes upbraid him;

But nothing he'll reck, if they let him fleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard the diftant and random gun Of the enemy fullenly firing.

Slowly and fadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

Wolfe.

VI.

DEPARTED FRIENDS.

RIEND after friend departs;

Who hath not loft a friend? There is no union here of hearts

That finds not here an end;

Were this frail world our final reft,

Living or dying none were bleft.

Beyond the flight of time

Beyond the reign of death

There furely is fome bleffed clime
Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's affections tranfient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward and expire!

[graphic]

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown-
A long eternity of love

Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Tranflated to that glorious sphere.

Thus ftar by ftar declines,
Till all are paft away;

As morning high and higher fhines
To pure and perfect day:

Nor fink thofe ftars in empty night,

But hide themselves in Heaven's own light.

R. MONTGOMERY.

VII.

THE DEPARTED MISSIONARY.

HOU art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,

Though forrows and darkness encompass the tomb;

The Saviour has paffed through its

[graphic]

portal before thee,

And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom!

Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy fide; But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And finners may die, for THE SINLESS has died!

Thou art gone to the grave! and, its manfion forfaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long;
But the mild rays of Paradife beamed on thy waking,
And the found which thou heardft was the Sera-
phim’s fong!

Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,

Whofe God was thy ranfom, thy guardian and guide: He gave thee, He took thee, and He will reftore thee; And death has no fting, for the Saviour has died! BISHOP HEBER.

VIII.

THE DEPARTED CHILD.

IND haft thou fought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy;

The realms where forrow dare not

[graphic]

come,

Where life is joy?

Pure at thy death as at thy birth,

Thy fpirit caught no taint from earth,
Ev'n by its blifs we meet our dearth,

Defpair was in our laft farewell,

As closed thine eye;

Cafa Wappy!

Tears of our anguifh may not tell

When thou didst die;

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