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FUNERAL HYMN.

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The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of summer fade,

The Autumn droop in winter,-the birds forsake the

shade,

The wind be lulled,—the sun and moon forget their old decree,

But we in nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to Thee.

HEAVEN TRANSCENDENTLY GLORIOUS.

I PRAISED the earth in beauty seen,
With garlands gay of various green;
I praised the sea whose ample field
Shone glorious as a silver shield;
And earth and ocean seemed to say,
Our beauties are but for a day."

I praised the sun whose chariot rolled
On wheels of amber and of gold;

I praised the moon whose softer eye
Gleamed sweetly through the summer-sky;
And moon and sun in answer said,
"Our days of light are numbered."

O God, O good beyond compare!
If thus thy meaner works are fair;
If thus thy bounties gild the span
Of ruined earth and sinful man;
How glorious must the mansion be

Where thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee!

FUNERAL HYMN.

THOU art gone to the grave!-but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour has passed through its portal before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom.

Thou art gone to the grave!—we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may hope, since the sinless hath died.

Thou art gone to the grave!--and, its mansion forsaking,
Perchance, thy weak spirit in doubt linger'd long;
But the sunshine of heav'n beam'd bright on thy waking,
And the sound which thou heard'st, was the seraphim
song.

Thou art gone to the grave!--but 'twere vain to deplore

thee,

When God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide; He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thec, And death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
BORN, 1785; DIED, 1806.

A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.
O LORD! another day is flown,

And we, a lonely band,

Are met once more before thy throne,
To bless thy fostering hand.

And wilt thou bend a listening ear,

To praises low as ours?

Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear
The song which meekness pours.

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign,
As we before thee pray;

For thou didst bless the infant train,

And we are less than they.

THE CHRISTIAN'S PROGRESS.

Oh, let thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease;

And shed abroad in every heart
Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chasten'd, cleans'd, entirely thine,
A flock by Jesus led;

The Sun of holiness shall shine
In glory on our head.

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,

And thou wilt bless our way,

Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet
The dawn of lasting day.

THE CHRISTIAN'S PROGRESS. THROUGH Sorrow's night, and danger's path,

Amid the deepening gloom,

We, soldiers of an injured king,

Are marching to the tomb.

There, when the turmoil is no more,

And all our powers decay,

Our cold remains in solitude
Shall sleep the years away.

Our labours done, securely laid
In this our last retreat,
Unheeded, o'er our silent dust

The storms of life shall beat.

Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,

The vital spark shall lie,

For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise
To see its kindred sky.

These ashes, too, this little dust,

Our Father's care shall keep,

Till the last Angel rise, and break
The long and dreary sleep.

125

Then love's soft dew o'er every eye
Shall shed its mildest rays,

And the long silent dust shall burst
With shouts of endless praise.

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THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB'S HOST AT JERUSALEM.

"The Lord sent an angel, which cut off all the mighty men of valour, and the leaders and captains in the camp of the king of Assyria: so he returned with shame of face to his own land."-2 CHRONICLES, xxxii. 21. THE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest, when Autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay wither'd and strown.

For, the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breath'd on the face of the foe as he passed:
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride :
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
The tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

THE BURIAL ANTHEM.

127

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

HENRY HART MILMAN.
BORN, 1791.

THE BURIAL ANTHEM.

BROTHER, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown.

From the burthen of the flesh,

And from care and fear releas'd,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er,
And borne the heavy load;

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode;
Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus
Upon his Father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,

Nor doubt thy faith assail;

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ,

And the Holy Spirit fail:

And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,

Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

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