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Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

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.

WOLFE.

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RIEND after friend departs ;

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

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-
There surely is some blessed clime

Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward and expire !

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
Translated to that glorious sphere.

Thus ftar by ftar declines,

Till all are past away ;
As morning high and higher shines

To pure and perfect day :
Nor sink those stars 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 en

compass the tomb; The Saviour has passed through its

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 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

phim’s fong!

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 !

BISHOP HEBER.

VIII.

THE DEPARTED CHILD.

IND hast thou sought thy heavenly home,

Our fond, dear boy;
The realms where sorrow dare not
come,

Where life is joy?
Pure at thy death as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth,
Ev'n by its bliss we meet our dearth,

Casa Wappy!

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Despair was in our last farewell,
As closed thine

eye ;
Tears of our anguish may not tell

When thou didst die;

Words may not paint our grief for thee,
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea
Of our unfathomed agony,

Casa Wappy!

Thou wert a vision of delight,

To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our fight,

A type of Heaven :
So dear to us thou wert, thou art,
Ev'n less thine own self, than a part,
Of mine, and of thy mother's heart,

Casa Wappy!

Thy bright brief day knew no decline,

'Twas cloudless joy;
Sunrise and night alone were thine,

Beloved boy!
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay,
That found thee prostrate in decay ;
And ere a third shone, clay was clay,

Casa Wappy!

Gem of our hearth, our household pride,

Earth's undefiled;
Could love have faved, thou hadft not died,

Our dear, sweet child!
Humbly we bow to fate's decree,
Yet had we hoped that time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,

Casa Wappy! Do what I may, go where I will,

Thou meet'st my sight;
There dost thou glide before me still

A form of light.
I feel thy breath upon my cheek,
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak,
Till oh! my heart is like to break,

Casa Wappy!

Ev'n to the last, thy every word,

To glad, to grieve,
Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird,

On summer's eve;
In outward beauty undecayed,
Death o'er thy spirit caft no shade,
And like the rainbow thou didst fade,

Casa Wappy!

We mourn for thee when blind blank night

The chamber fills ;
We pine for thee when morn's first light

Reddens the hills :
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,
All, to the wall-flower and wild-pea,
Are changed; we saw the world through thee,

Casa Wappy!

And though, perchance, a smile may gleam

Of casual mirth;
It doth not own, whate'er may seem,

An inward birth.

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