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The pathway to the grave may be the same,
And the proud man shall tread it, and the low,
With his bowed head, shall bear him company.
Decay will make no difference, and death,
With his cold hand, shall make no difference;
And there will be no precedence of power,
In waking at the coming trump of God;
But in the temper of the invisible mind,
The godlike and undying intellect,

There are distinctions that will live in heaven,
When time is a forgotten circumstance!

The elevated brow of kings will lose

The impress of regalia, and the slave
Will wear his immortality as free,
Beside the crystal waters; but the depth
Of glory in the attributes of God,
Will measure the capacities of mind;
And as the angels differ, will the ken
Of gifted spirits glorify him more.
It is life's mystery. The soul of man
Createth its own destiny of power;
And, as the trial is intenser here,
His being hath a nobler strength in heaven.

What is its earthly victory? Press on!
For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on!
For it shall make you mighty among men ;
And from the eyrie of your eagle thought,
Ye shall look down on monarchs. O, press on'
For the high ones and powerful shall come
To do you reverence; and the beautiful
Will know the purer language of your brow,
And read it like a talisman of love!
Press on! for it is godlike to unloose
The spirit, and forget yourself in thought;
Bending a pinion for the deeper sky,
And, in the very fetters of your flesh,
Mating with the pure essences of heaven!
Press on!-for in the grave there is no work,
And no device.'-Press on! while yet ye may!

So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst
Of his immortal nature; and he rends
The rock for secret fountains, and pursues
The path of the illimitable wind

'Tis to have

For mysteries-and this is human pride!
There is a gentler element, and man
May breathe it with a calm, unruffled soul,
And drink its living waters till his heart
Is pure-and this is human happiness!
Its secret and its evidence are writ
In the broad book of nature.
Attentive and believing faculties;
To go abroad rejoicing in the joy
Of beautiful and well created things;
To love the voice of waters, and the sheen
Of silver fountains leaping to the sea;
To thrill with the rich melody of birds,
Living their life of music; to be glad

In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm;

To see a beauty in the stirring leaf,

And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tree;

To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence

Of God's deep wisdom in the natural world!

It is to linger on the magic face

Of human beauty,' and from light and shade
Alike to draw a lesson; 'tis to love
The cadences of voices that are tuned
By majesty and purity of thought;
To gaze on woman's beauty, as a star
Whose purity and distance make it fair;
And in the gush of music to be still,
And feel that it has purified the heart!
It is to love all virtue for itself,

All nature for its breathing evidence;

And, when the eye hath seen, and when the ear
Hath drunk the beautiful harmony of the world,
It is to humble the imperfect mind,

And lean the broken spirit upon God!

Thus would I, at this parting hour, be true

To the great moral of a passing world.
Thus would I like a just departing child,
Who lingers on the threshold of his home-
Remember the best lesson of the lips

Whose accents shall be with us now, no more!
It is the gift of sorrow to be pure;

And I would press the lesson; that, when life
Hath half become a weariness, and hope

Thirsts for serener waters, Go abroad

Upon the paths of nature, and, when all
Its voices whisper, and its silent things
Are breathing the deep beauty of the world,
Kneel at its sinple altar, and the God
Who hath the living waters shall be there!

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I love by faith to take a view

Of brighter scenes in heaven:

Cowper

Such prospects oft my strength renew,
While here by tempests driven.

Thus, when life's toilsome day is o'er,
May its departing ray

Be calm as this impressive hour,
And lead to endless day.

To the River Arve.-TALISMAN.

NoT from the sands or cloven rocks,
Thou rapid Arve, thy waters flow;
Nor earth, within its bosom, locks

Thy dark, unfathomed wells below.
Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream
Begins to move and murmur first
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam,
Or rain-storms on the glacier burst.

Born where the thunder, and the blast,
And morning's earliest light are born,
Thou rushest, swoln, and loud, and fast,
By these low homes, as if in scorn:
Yet humbler springs yield purer waves,
And brighter, glassier streams than thine,
Sent up from earth's unlighted caves,

With heaven's own beam and image shine

Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees;
Warm rays on cottage roofs are here,
And laugh of girls, and hum of bees:
Here linger till thy waves are clear.
Thou heedest not; thou hastest on;
From steep to steep thy torrent falls,
Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone,
It rests beneath Geneva's walls.

Rush on; but were there one with me
That loved me, I would light my hearth
Here, where with God's own majesty

Are touched the features of the earth.
By these old peaks, white, high, and vast,
Still rising as the tempests beat,
Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last,
Among the blossoms at their feet.

The Burial.-ANONYMOUS.

'We therefore commit his body to the ground."-Burial Service

THE earth has fallen cold and deep
Above his narrow bier;

No wintry winds can break his sleep,
No thunders reach his ear.

The mourner's parting steps are gone,
Gone the last echoing sound;
And night's dark shadows, stealing on,
Spread solemn gloom around.

And he whose heart was wont to glow
With joy, when hastening home,
Here must he lie, cold, silent, now,
And mouldering in the tomb,—

Till time itself, and days, and years,
Shall all have passed away;
In that cold heart, no hopes nor fears
Shall hold their dubious sway.

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Though deep the slumbers of the tomb,

Though dark that bed of clay,

Yet shall he wake, and leave that gloom,
For everlasting day.

On the Loss of a pious Friend.-BRAINARD.

Imitated from the 57th chapter of Isaiah.

WHO shall weep when the righteous die?
Who shall mourn when the good depart?
When the soul of the godly away shall fly,
Who shall lay the loss to heart?

He has gone into peace; he has laid him down
To sleep till the dawn of a brighter day;

And he shall wake on that holy morn,
When sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

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