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To rise again, death's slumber done,
Glorious like thee, sweet setting sun!


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O WEEP not thus, tho' the child thou hast lov'd,
Still, still as the grave in silence sleeps on;
Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmov'd,
And the beat of that bosom forever is gone :
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest.
The world to him, with its sorrow and sighs,
Has fled like a dream when the morn appears;
While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies,
No more to revisit this valley of tears:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest.

Few, few were his years, but had they been more,
The sunshine which smil'd might have vanish'd


And he might have fall'n on some far friendless shore,

Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate


Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest.

Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn,
Was the child of thy heart while he lingered

But now from thy love-from thine arms he is


Yet, to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere.

Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest. How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er, Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and


Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more

Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose. Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest. Who would not recline on the breast of a friend, When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day?

Who would not rejoice at his journey's end,
When perils and toils encompass'd his way?
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest.



O THINK that, while you're weeping here,
His hand a golden harp is stringing;
And, with a voice serene and clear,
His ransom'd soul, without a tear,
His Saviour's praise is singing!

And think that all his pains are fled,

His toils and sorrows clos'd for ever;
While He, whose blood for man was shed,
Has placed upon his Servant's head

A crown that fadeth never!

And think that, (in that awful day,

When darkness sun and moon is shading,) The form that, 'midst its kindred clay,

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Your trembling hands prepare to lay,
Shall rise to life unfading!

Then weep no more for him, that's gone
Where sin and suff'ring ne'er shall enter;
But on that great High Priest alone,
Who can for guilt like ours atone,
Your own affections centre!

For thus, while round your lowly bier
Surviving friends are sadly bending,
Your souls, like his, to Jesus dear,
Shall wing their flight to yonder sphere,
Faith lightest pinions lending.

And thus, when to the silent tomb

Your lifeless dust like his is giv'n,
Like faith shall whisper, 'midst the gloom,
That yet again, in youthful bloom,

That dust shall smile in heaven!


BLESSED be thy name for ever,

Thou, of life the guard and giver;

Thou canst guard thy creatures sleeping;
Heal the heart long broke with weeping.
God of stillness and of motion,
Of the desert and the ocean,
Of the mountain, rock, and river,
Blessed be thy name for ever.

Thou, who slumberest not, nor sleepest,
Blest are they thou kindly keepest;
God of evening's parting ray,

Of midnight's gloom, and dawning day


That rises from the azure sea
Like breathings of eternity.

God of life! that fade shall never,
Blessed be thy name for ever.


O HAPPY is the man who hears
Instruction's warning voice,
And who celestial wisdom makes
His early, only choice!

For she has treasure greater far
Than east or west unfold,
And her reward is more secure
Than is the gain of gold.

In her right hand she holds to view
A length of happy years;
And in her left, the prize of fame
And honour bright appears.

She guides the young, with innocence
In pleasure's path to tread ;
A crown of glory she bestows
Upon the hoary head.

According as her labours rise,

So her rewards increase;
Her ways are ways of pleasantness,
And all her paths are peace.


HAIL! Solitude, thou blest abode,
Of those who worship nature's God;



Delightful shade! thy charms have power
To soothe the solitary hour.

I love the silence of those plains,
Where nature, simple nature, reigns;
Where undisturb'd those wilds among,
The artless minstrel pours his song;
And where the world whose pleasures seem
An airy unsubstantial dream,

Is quite forgot;-it cannot grieve,
And hope, and joy, no more deceive.

Let me but live 'midst such a scene,
In winter's storms, or summer's green;
I would not seek th' abodes of men,
Or live amidst their cares again;
Enough to me the mountains wild,
In lone and rugged grandeur pil'd;
The boiling stream, that seeks below
A placid, and a calmer flow:
Or let me sit at close of day,
And watch the sun-light die away;
Or see from yon aerial height,
The slow and solemn march of night;
And hear the minstrel's latest strain,
As darkness wraps the dewy plain.

'Midst scenes like this, the mind will rise,
From earth, to those sublimer skies;
And hold sweet converse with its God,
In his celestial bright abode.

Hail! God of nature and of grace,
In solitude thy steps we trace;
Thy voice is heard in every gale,
Thy footsteps linger in the vale;
In storms, thy awful might we see,
When riding forth in Majesty;

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