XLVI. HOLY SORROW. HEN the fpark of life is waning, When the languid eye is ftraining, When the feeble pulfe is ceafing, Start not at its swift decreasing, 'Tis the fettered foul's releafing; Weep not for me. When the pangs of death affail me, Chrift is mine, He cannot fail me,- Yes, though fin and doubt endeavour Jefus is my ftrength-for ever! Weep not for me. DALE. XLVII. HOLY SORROW. HEN thefe dark hours of earthly love Thefe lips fhall blefs, thefe hands fhall move, Thefe eyes fhall look no more. Oh! let no tear thine eyelid dim, Thefe lips transformed refound the words, These hands transfigured fweep the chords That praise the great "I am." Thefe hollow eyes but feem to fleep, For ah! to them 'tis given One endless watch of blifs to keep, ROBERT MCGHEE. XLVIII. HOLY SORROW. H! deem not they are bleffed alone, The light of fmiles fhall fill again There is a day of funny reft, For every dark and troubled night; And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier, Hope that a happier, brighter fhore, Nor let the good man's truft depart, For all its children fuffer here. BRYANT. XLIX. HOLY SORROW. S it not fweet to think hereafter, To thofe fhe long hath mourned for Hearts from which 'twas death to fever, When wearily we wander, asking Of Earth and Heaven, where are they Alas! alas! doth hope deceive us? Shall friendship, love, and all thofe ties To wean our hearts from wrong and stain, THOMAS MOORE, L. HOLY SORROW. FT as memory's glance is ranging, Yes, 'though Time has laid his finger Though we charge to-day with fleetness, In the name of Days gone by. Ceafe, fond heart, to thee are given, |