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Thou into nothingness again must wend, When this vast world dissolves with fervent heat ;

His revolutions end, his cycle be complete.

And then shall follow an eternal day,

Illum'd by splendour far surpassing thine; For HE, who made thee, shall Himself display, And in the brightness of his glory shine,Absorbing all, and making all divine:

[fall; Before His throne the hosts of heaven shall And space itself shall be but as a shrine,

Where everlasting praises cannot pall,

Pour'd forth before THE LAMB, and GOD, the LORD OF ALL!

BERNARD BARTON.

A WISH.

OH for the dreamless rest of those

That in the dust serenely sleep

That feel no more their own wild woes,
That hear no more their kindred weep!

How blest are those that in the clay
Forget the pangs this being gave!
No fears appal, no hopes betray,

The peaceful inmates of the grave.
Though near the house of pray'r they lie,
They never hear the Sabbath bell;
Nor when the funeral passes by,

Start at the dead man's passing knell.

Though whirlwinds wild o'er nature sweep,
Though battles fill the world with woes,
Though orphans wail, and widows weep,
It ne'er disturbs their calm repose.

Though there no coral lip be prest,
Though there shall heave no mutual sighs;
No cheek repose on beauty's breast-
Yet oh! how still the sleeper lies!

Though there no friendly hand shall shake
The hand of friendship any more-
What then?-the heart that wish'd to break
Is broken, and the strife is o'er.

No tear-drops o'er the cold cheek start,
No dark shades o'er the spirit wave;
No writhing pang distracts the heart
Of those that moulder in the grave.

Oh for the dreamless rest of those
That in the grave serenely sleep-
That feel no more their own wild woes,
That hear no more their kindred weep!

ANON.

ON THE VANITY OF MONUMENTAL GRANDEUR.
COULD we conceive Death was indeed the close
Of our existence, Nature might demand
That, where the reliques of our friends repose,
Some record to their memory should stand,
To keep them unforgotten in the land :-

Then, then indeed, urn, tomb, or marble bust By sculptor's art elaborately plann'd [dust, Would seem a debt due to their mould'ring Though time would soon efface the perishable trust.

But hoping, and believing; yea, through Faith, Knowing, because His word has told us so, That Christ, our Captain, triumph'd over Death, And is the first fruits of the dead below;

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That he has trod for man this path of woe,
Dying to rise again!—we would not grace
Death's transitory spell with trophied show;

As if that "shadowy vale" supply'd no trace
To prove the grave is not our final dwelling-place.
Then be our burial-grounds, as should become
A simple, but a not unfeeling race:
Let them appear, to outward semblance, dumb
As best befits the quiet dwelling-place
Appointed for the prisoners of Grace,

Who wait the promise by the Gospel given,When the last trump shall sound-the trembling base

Of tombs, of temples, pyramids be riven, And all the dead arise before the hosts of Heaven! Oh! in that awful hour, of what avail Unto the "spiritual body" will be found The costliest canopy, or proudest tale Recorded on it?-what avail the bound

Of holy, or unconsecrated ground?

As freely will the unencumber'd sod
Be cleft asunder at that trumpet's sound,
As Royalty's magnificent abode;

As pure its inmate rise, and stand before his God.

NIGHT.

BERNARD BARTON.

NIGHT is the time to rest;

How sweet when labours close,

To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose:

Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is and truth that seems

Blend in fantastic strife;

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are!

Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young, like things on earth!

Night is the time to watch;

On Ocean's dark expanse,

To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full Moon's earliest glance, That brings unto the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care;

Brooding on hours mis-spent To see the spectre of Despair Come to our lonely tent;

Like Brutus midst his slumb'ring host, Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.

Night is the time to muse;

Then from the eye the soul

Takes flight, and with expanding views
Beyond the starry pole,

Descries athwart the abyss of night

The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away,
So will his followers do;

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.

Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,

Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suff'ring cease;

Think of Heav'n's bliss and give the sign
To parting friends-such death be mine!

MONTGOMERY.

NATURE

THE God of nature and of grace
In all his works appears;

His goodness through the earth we trace,
His grandeur in the spheres.

Behold this fair and fertile globe,
By him in wisdom plann'd;
'Twas he who girded, like a robe,
The ocean round the land.

Lift to the firmament your eye,
Thither his path pursue;
His glory, boundless as the sky,
O'erwhelms the wond'ring view.

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