Benign restorer of the soul,
Who ever fliest to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude control
Of love or pity, joy or grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,

In every clime, in every age; Thou charm'st in fancy's idle dream, In reason's philosophic page.

That very law which moulds a tear,

And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

Rogers.

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb,

But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.

And oft by yon blue gushing stream,
Shall sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream;

And lingering pause, and lightly tread,
Fond wretch! as if her steps disturbed the dead.

Away!—we know that tears are vain,

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress :
Will this unteach us to complain,

Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan-thy eyes are wet!

A FUNERAL HYMN.

Beneath our feet, and o'er our head,
Is equal warning given;
Beneath us lie the countless dead,
Above us is the heaven!

Their names are graven on the stone,
Their bones are in the clay;
And ere another day is done,
Ourselves may be as they.

Byron.

Death rides on every passing breeze,
He lurks in every flower;
Each season has its own disease,

Its peril every hour!

Our

eyes have seen the
rosy light
Of youth's soft cheek decay,

And fate descend in sudden night
On manhood's middle day.

Our

eyes have seen the steps of age
Halt feebly t'wards the tomb,
And yet shall earth our hearts engage,
And dreams of days to come?

Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know;
Where'er thy foot can tread,

The earth rings hollow from below,
And warns thee of her dead!

Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply
To truths divinely given ;
The bones that underneath thee lie
Shall live for hell or heaven.

CONTENTMENT.

Fierce passions discompose the mind,
As tempests vex the sea;

But calm content and peace we find,
When, Lord, we turn to thee.

In vain by reason and by rule,
We try to bend the will;
For none but in the Saviour's school
Can learn the heavenly skill.

Since at his feet my soul has sat,

His gracious words to hear, Contented with my present state, I cast on him my care.

'Art thou a sinner, soul?' he said;
'Then how canst thou complain;
How light thy troubles here, if weighed
With everlasting pain.

'If thou of murmuring would'st be cured,
Compare thy griefs with mine;
Think what my love for thee endured,
And thou wilt not repine.

"Tis I appoint thy daily lot,

And I do all things well;
Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot,
And rise with me to dwell.

In life my grace shall strength supply,
Proportioned to thy day;

At death thou still shalt find me nigh,
To wipe thy tears away.'

Thus I, who once my wretched days
In vain repining spent ;

Taught in my Saviour's school of grace,
Have learned to be content.

FUNERAL ANTHEM.

Brother, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown,

Cowper.