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Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy talk was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy fullenly firing. Slowly and sadly 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.
RIEND after friend departs ;
Who hath not lost a friend ?
That finds not here an end ;
Were this frail world our final rest, Living or dying none were bleft.
Beyond the flight of time
Beyond the reign of death-
Where life is not a breath,
There is a world above,
Where parting is unknown-
Formed for the good alone ;
Thus ftar by ftar declines,
Till all are past away ;
To pure and perfect day :
THE DEPARTED MISSIONARY.
HOU art gone to the grave! but we will
not deplore thee, Though forrows and darkness en
compass the tomb; The Saviour has passed through its
portal before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the
Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough path 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 lingered long; But the mild rays of Paradise beamed on thy waking, And the found which thou heardft was the Sera
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 !
THE DEPARTED CHILD.
IND hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy;
Where life is joy?
Despair was in our last farewell,
When thou didst die;
Words may not paint our grief for thee,
Thou wert a vision of delight,
To bless us given;
A type of Heaven :
Thy bright brief day knew no decline,
'Twas cloudless joy;
Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Our dear, sweet child!
Casa Wappy! Do what I may, go where I will,
Thou meet'st my sight;
A form of light.
Ev'n to the last, thy every word,
To glad, to grieve,
On summer's eve;
We mourn for thee when blind blank night
The chamber fills ;
Reddens the hills :
And though, perchance, a smile may gleam
Of casual mirth;
An inward birth.