THE GRAVE. O Grave, what woe is wrought by thee! Yet, than earth's mightiest mightier, Her light was but the meteor gleam, Till rose the Conqueror of Death, The humble man of Nazareth: He stood between us and despair, 63 O Grave! well might each thoughtful race Give thee the high and holy place: E 64 THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS. Mountains and Groves were meet for thee, Thou portal of eternity! MARY HOWITT. The Death of the Righteous. How fair and how lovely it is to behold The sun in its splendour approaching the west, Its race is near run, and refulgent as gold, It glides through the ether as hastening to rest. It sinks, but in sinking 'tis only to rise, Yet far more resplendent than this is the scene He dies, but no pencil can ever display, The splendour and glory that burst on his sight, As guided by angels he speeds on his way, Through the portals of praise to the temple of light. J. HARRIS. The Sabbath. WHAT spell has o'er the populous city past! Its sports, its gainful schemes, are earthward cast, Far spreads the charm! from every hamlet spire The toil-worn steed basks in the breezy field. Within, without, through farm and cottage blest, 'Tis one bright day of gladness and of rest. Down from the mountain dwellings, while the dew Shines on the heath-bells, and the fern is bending In the fresh breeze, in festive garbs I view Childhood and age and buoyant youth descending. God! who has piled thy wonders round their home, 'Tis in thy love they to the temple come. A stately ship speeds o'er the mighty main - For there its little isolated band, Amid the ocean desert's awful roar Praise Him whose love links shore to distant shore. |