Go, Christian soul! though long neglected VICTORY IN DEATH. KELLY. AWAY! thou dying saint, away! Thy toils at length have reached a close; Away, away to thy repose; Beyond the reach of evil go. Away to yonder realms of light, Where multitudes, redeemed with blood, Enjoy the beatific sight, And dwell for ever with their God. Go, mix with them, and share their joys; In heaven behold the sinner's friend; In pleasure share that never cloys, And may our happier portion be The glory of our Lord to see, And sing His everlasting love! THE SISTER'S VOICE. BROWNE. Он, my sister's voice is gone away! We have lost its tones, that were so gay, We miss the glancing of her eye, The waving of her hair, The footsteps lightly gliding by, The hand so small and fair; And the wild bright smile that lit her face, For, Oh! it was so soft and sweet Would soothe our bosoms' care, And loveliest when it rose above in my childhood I have sate, When that sweet voice hath breathed, Forgetful of each merry mate Of the wild flowers I had wreathed; And though each other voice I scorned That called me from my play, If my sweet sister only warned, "Twas she who sang me many a rhyme, And told me many a tale, And many a legend of old time That made my spirit quail. There are a thousand pleasant sounds Around our cottage still The torrent that before it bounds, The murmuring of the wood-dove's sigh, The swallow in the eaves, In passing from the leaves, And the pattering of the early rain The opening flowers to wet But they want my sister's voice again We stood around her dying-bed; To the mournful beings that she loved, Till at last from her eye came one bright ray That bound us like a spell; And as her spirit passed away, We heard her sigh, "Farewell!" And oft since then that voice hath come And it seems to speak as from the tomb, And I never hear a low soft flute, Or the sounds of a rippling stream, And brings the hidden treasures forth That lie in memory's store; And again to thoughts of that voice gives birth, No more! it is not so-my hope Where we shall gaze on those we love, And I shall hear my sister's voice In holier, purer tone— With all those spotless souls rejoice Before the Eternal Throne. WEEP NOT FOR HER. The spring shall give us violets back And every flower but thee. Mrs. Hemans. WEEP not for her, though on her brow Decline has writ its doom; Though soon that cheek, so smooth ere now, Weep not-although their rosy hue Spirit of softness, hie away To thy own realms of bliss; ADVICE TO A SISTER. (MEMOIRS OF THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND.) FORGIVE me, my beloved sister, if I express myself with more plainness than nearest ties of |