When the sight fails, the catching breath
Choked by the rising flood of death;
When the last parting word is spoken,
From aching hearts all, all but broken;
And the last pressure, and the eye
Stands fixed upon me as I die-

When flesh will sink, and heart will fail,

And no support but His avail,

Who knows my every sin, but who,
Faith whispers, has forgiven too :

Oh, then, convulsed, and cold, and spent
To the last spark-in languishment,

And all that racks man as he dies,

Death's nameless, untried agonies

Give me that hope!

J. C.

"Fear not.. I have the keys of the grave and of death." Rev. i. 17, 18.

OH cling not, trembler, to life's fragile bark:

It fills it soon must sink.

Look not below, where all is chill and dark: 'Tis agony to think

Of that wide waste; but look, oh! look

above,

And see the outstretched arm of love.

Cling not to this poor life: unlock thy clasp

Of fleeting vapoury air.

The world receding, soon will mock thy

grasp;

But let the wings of prayer

Take the blest breeze of heaven, and up

ward flee,

And life from God shall enter thee.

Oh, fear not Him who walks the watery

wave:

'Tis not a spectre, but the Lord.

Trust thou in Him who overcame the grave, Who holds in captive ward

The

powers of hell. Heed not the monster

grim;

Nor fear to go through death to Him.

Look not so fondly back on this false earth;

Let hope not linger here.

Say, would the worm forego its second birth, Or the transition fear,

That gives it wings to try a world unknown, Although it wakes and mounts alone?

But thou art not alone: on either side
The portal, friends stand guard;

And the kind spirits wait thy course to guide.

Why, why should it be hard

To trust our Maker with the soul He gave,

Or Him who died that soul to save?

Into His hands commit thy trembling spirit, Who gave His life for thine.

Guilty, fix all thy trust upon His merit :

To Him thy heart resign.

Oh, give Him love for love, and sweetly fall

Into His hands who is thy All.

CONDER.

66 HOME, SWEET HOME."

WHILE through this barren wilderness wearily

we roam,

How sweet to cast a look above, and think

we're going home:

106

To know that there the trials of our pilgrim

age shall cease,

And all the waves of earthly woe be hushed to heavenly peace.

Home, sweet home!

Oh, for that Land of Rest above! our own eternal home!

These trees are not the trees that grow in beauty, by the side

Of that bright flood, whose living streams through sinless regions glide;

We see not here the' immortal fruit,-the

fadeless flowers that bloom

On hills of light,-in vales of peace,—at our

bright Eden home.

Home, &c.