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Go, Christian soul! though long neglected
Within thy tenement of clay, Behold the Lamb! be not dejected,
His blood shall wash thy sins away.
VICTORY IN DEATH.
AWAY! thou dying saint, away!
Fly to the mansions of the blest; Thy God no more requires thy stay,
le calls thee to eternal rest.
Thy toils at length have reached a close ;
No more remains for thee to do; 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,
In pleasure that will never end. And may our happier portion be
To join thee in the realms above; The glory of our Lord to see,
And sing His everlasting love !
THE SISTER'S VOICE.
Oh, my sister's voice is gone away!
Around our social hearth
So full of harmless mirth.-
The waving of her hair,
The hand so small and fair;
And made our hearts rejoice-
But most of all her voice.
For, Oh! it was so soft and sweet
When breathed forth in words ;
In echoes on their chords ;
sung a mournful song,
In triumph chorus strong;
Would soothe our bosoms' care,
In sounds of praise and prayer. 0, 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,
I never could delay. '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 breeze upon the hill,
The swallow in the eaves,
In passing from the leaves,
The opening flowers to wet-
To make them sweeter yet.
We saw her blue eyes close;
And from her cheek the rose.
And still she strove to speak
And yet she was too weak;
Till at last from her eye came one bright ray
That bound us like a spell;
We heard her sigh, “Farewell!”
Across my heart again;
And bids me not complain ;
Or the sounds of a rippling stream,
But it renews my dream,
That lie in memory's store ;
That voice I shall hear no more.
No more !—it is not so—my hope
Shall still be strong in Heaven-
For peace and comfort given.
Where all the blessed meet,
Around the Saviour's feet:
Before the Eternal Throne.
Weep pot for her, though on her brow
Decline has writ its doom;
Shall moulder in the tomb.
Who for mankind was slain,
To see that form again.-
To thy own realms of bliss;
Which most I loved in this.
(MEMOIRS OF THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND.)
FORGIVE me, my beloved sister, if I express myself with more plainness than nearest ties of