XLVI.

HOLY SORROW.

HEN the fpark of life is waning,
Weep not for me—

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

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,
Weep not for me

Chrift is mine, He cannot fail me,-
Weep not for me.

Yes, though fin and doubt endeavour
From His love my foul to fever,

Jefus is my ftrength-for ever!

Weep not for me.

DALE.

XLVII.

HOLY SORROW.

HEN thefe dark hours of earthly love
And earthly pangs are o'er,

Thefe lips fhall blefs, thefe hands fhall

move,

Thefe eyes fhall look no more.

Oh! let no tear thine eyelid dim,
O'er this pale form of clay;
But think I reft at peace with Him,
Who wipes all tears away.

Thefe lips transformed refound the words,
"Hofanna to the Lamb!"_

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,
For they have waked in Heaven!

ROBERT MCGHEE.

XLVIII.

HOLY SORROW.

H! deem not they are bleffed alone,
Whofe lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man has shown
A bleffing for the eyes that weep.

The light of fmiles fhall 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 fhall come with early light.

And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier,
Sheddeft the bitter drops like rain,

Hope that a happier, brighter fhore,
Will give him to thine arms again.

Nor let the good man's truft depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,
Though pierced and broken be his heart,
And fpurn'd of men he goes to die.
For God has mark'd each forrowing day,
And number'd every fecret tear,
And Heaven's long age of blifs fhall pay

For all its children fuffer here.

BRYANT.

XLIX.

HOLY SORROW.

S it not fweet to think hereafter,
When the spirit leaves this fphere,
Love with deathlefs wings fhall waft
her

To thofe fhe long hath mourned for
here?

Hearts from which 'twas death to fever,
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 whofe fmile we once lay basking,
Bleft, and thinking blifs would ftay?
Hope ftill lifts her radiant finger,
Pointing to the eternal home,
Upon whofe portal yet they linger,
Looking back for us to come!

Alas! alas! doth hope deceive us?

Shall friendship, love, and all thofe 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 feek to reach a Heaven,
Where all we love fhall live again?

THOMAS MOORE,

L.

HOLY SORROW.

FT as memory's glance is ranging,
Over fcenes 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, ftill, with ftreaming 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 fky,
There's a melancholy sweetness

In the name of Days gone by.

Ceafe, fond heart, to thee are given,
Hopes of better things on high;
There is ftill a coming Heaven,
Better than the Days gone by.