XLVI.

HOLY SORROW.

HEN the spark of life is waning,

Weep not for me-
When the languid eye is ftraining,

Weep not for me.
When the feeble pulse is ceasing,
Start not at its swift decreasing,
'Tis the fettered soul's releasing ;

Weep not for me.

When the

pangs

of death assail me,

Weep not for me
Christ is mine, He cannot fail me,-

Weep not for me.
Yes, though sin and doubt endeavour
From His love my soul to sever,
Jesus is my strength—for ever!

Weep not for me.

Dale.

XLVII.

HOLY SORROW.

HEN these dark hours of earthly love

And earthly pangs are o'er,
These lips shall bless, these hands shall

move,
These eyes shall look no more.

Oh! let no tear thine eyelid dim,

O'er this pale form of clay ;
But think I rest at peace with Him,

Who wipes all tears away.
These lips transformed resound the words,

“ Hosanna to the Lamb!”.
These hands transfigured sweep the chords

That praise the great “I am.” These hollow

eyes

but seem to sleep,
For ah! to them 'tis given
One endless watch of bliss to keep,
For they have waked in Heaven!

ROBERT MCGHEE.

XLVIII.

HOLY SORROW.

H! deem not they are blessed alone,

Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man has shown A blessing for the eyes

that

weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again

The lid that overflows with tears ; And weary

hours of woe and pain Are promises of happy years. There is a day of funny reft, For every

dark and troubled night; And grief may bide, an evening guest,

But joy shall come with early light.
And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier,

Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a happier, brighter shore,

Will give him to thine arms again. Nor let the good man's trust depart,

Though life its common gifts deny, Though pierced and broken be his heart,

And spurn’d of men he goes to die. For God has mark'd each forrowing day, And number'd

XLIX.

HOLY SORROW.

S it not sweet to think hereafter,

When the spirit leaves this sphere, Love with deathless wings shall waft

her
To those she long hath mourned for

here?
Hearts from which 'twas death to sever,

Eyes this world can ne'er restore ;
There as warm, as bright as ever,

Shall meet us, and be loft no more?

When wearily we wander, asking

Of Earth and Heaven, where are they
Beneath whose smile we once lay basking,

Bleft, and thinking bliss would stay?
Hope still lifts her radiant finger,

Pointing to the eternal home,
Upon whose portal yet they linger,

Looking back for us to come!

Alas! alas! doth hope deceive us ?

Shall friendship, love, and all those ties
Which bind a moment, and then leave us,

Be found again where nothing dies?
Oh ! if no other boon were given,

To wean our hearts from wrong and stain,
Who would not seek to reach a Heaven,
Where all we love shall live again?

THOMAS MOORE.

L.

HOLY SORROW.

FT as memory's glance is ranging,

Over scenes that cannot die;
Then I feel that all is changing,

Then I weep the Days gone by.

Yes, 'though Time has laid his finger

On them, still, with streaming eye, There are spots where I can linger,

Sacred to the Days gone by.

Though we charge to-day with fleetness,

Though we dread to-morrow's sky, There's a melancholy sweetness

In the name of Days gone by.

a

Cease, fond heart, to thee are given,

Hopes of better things on high ; There is still a coming Heaven,

Better than the Days gone by.