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Not as the worldling bids farewell
Now is the stately column broke .
Now the bright spring comès forth to clothe the trees

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O crux lignum triumphale
O deem not they are blessed alone
O Father of Heaven! look down from above
Oft as memory's glance is ranging
O Head so full of bruises
Oh! give me Faith
Oh! it is sweet to die - to part from earth
Oh! I would walk
Oh! land of the godly, how lone and deserted
Oh! what a chorus shall the ranfomed fing
O man, consider thoughtfully
On the dewy breath of Even
O Thou by Heaven ordained to be
O Thou Eternal One! whose presence bright
O Thou that driest the mourner's tear
O Thou, whom neither time nor space
O Thou whose wisdom guides the way
Our birth is but a Neep
Our hearts are fastened to the world
O weep not for the gathered rose
O what a bright and blessed world
O what is death? 'Tis life's last shore
O what terror in thy forethought

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Prayer is the soul's fincere desire .
Prayer, the Church's banquet, Angel's age

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Redeemer of the Nations, come
Reflected on the lake, I love
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean

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Sabbath hours ! they come and go
See the leaves around us falling
Servant of God, well done
She has a charm, a word of fire
She was a woman of a steady mind
Shepherd of tender youth
Should not the exile, Lord, desire
Sing, my tongue, the glorious battle
Solvere volo et folvi volo
Some sweet favour of Thy favour
Some murmur when their sky is clear
Spirit of Mercy, Truth, and Love
Spirit of Spirits, who through every part
Suppose we on things traditive divide

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Tell me not in mournful numbers
Tell me, thou dust beneath my feet
Tender mercies on my way
That ancient Fathers thus expound the page
The bird that soars on highest wing
The child-like Faith that asks not sight
The child of tears, the child of tears
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day
The feeble pulse, the gasping breath
The first-born rose of vernal prime
The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove
The great August Immortal King
The groans of Nature in this nether world
The Lord descended from above
The Lord my pasture shall prepare
The Lord of Might from Sinai's brow
The quality of Mercy is not strain'd
The reason firm, the temperate will
The Son of God goes forth to war
The Spirit breathes upon the Word
The Sundays of Man's life

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The whispering waves were half asleep
Then let us be content to leave behind us.
Then tower'd the palace, then in awful state
There is a place, beyond that flaming hill,
There is an unknown language spoken
There nor waxing moon nor waning
There's music in the morning air .
There's rest for the soul that on Jesus relies
These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good
These are Thy glorious works, Thou source of good
They have fallen one by one
They may stand near to the pearly gates
They sin who tell us Love can die
This world I deem
Those holy fields.
Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee.
Thou blessed Saviour, sacred Spring
Thou hast left behind
Thou shalt rise, my dust! thou shalt arise.
Though private prayer be a brave design
Through all eternity to Thee
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride
Thus when the lamp that lighted.
Thy own musician, Lord, inspire .
'Tis gone, that bright and orbed blaze
'Tis the soft hour of eve, the summer's sun
To aid the fatherless
To me the thought of death is terrible
To the name that brings salvation
Tu nostra, tu Jesu salus.
Upon the Ocean God is near
Urbs cæleftis! Urbs beata.

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Vital spark of Heavenly flame
Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more
Well for him who all things losing

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Were every faultering tongue of man
We wept !- 'twas Nature wept - but Faith
What are they now ? Morality may spare
What hallows ground where heroes sleep
What if each drop of rain should plead
What joy while thus I view the day
What is there in this vale of life
What finners value I resign
What sudden blaze of song
When eyes are beaming
When forced to part from those we love
When I survey the wondrous cross
When shall I offer up, o beautiful and bright
When fore afflictions crush the soul
When such a man familiar with the skies
When these dark hours of earthly love
When the spark of life is waning
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Which is the happiest death to die
Who hath this book, and reads it not
With age invested, thou didst mount above
Within this awful Volume lies
Woe be to the priest, y-born

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Ye who your Lord's commission bear
Yon cottager who weaves at her own door

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FINIS.

LONDON : SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE.

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