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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.

KELLY.

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.

BROWNE.

Oh, my sister's voice is gone away!

Around our social hearth
We have lost its tones, that were so gay,

So full of harmless mirth.-
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,

And made our hearts rejoice-
Sadly we mourn each vanished grace,

But most of all her voice.

She

For, Oh! it was so soft and sweet

When breathed forth in words ;
Such tones it had as hearts repeat

In echoes on their chords ;
And lovely when in measure soft

sung a mournful song,
And heavenly when it swelled aloft

In triumph chorus strong;
And dearest when its words of love

Would soothe our bosoms' care,
And loveliest when it rose above

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 torrent that before it bounds,

The breeze upon the hill,
The murmuring of the wood-dove's sigh,

The swallow in the eaves,
And the wind that sweeps a melody

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

To make them sweeter yet.
We stood around her dying-bed;

We saw her blue eyes close;
While from her heart the pulses fled,

And from her cheek the rose.
And still her lips in fondness moved,

And still she strove to speak
To the mournful beings that she loved,

And yet she was too weak;

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

Across my heart again;
And it seems to speak as from the tomb,

And bids me not complain ;
And I never hear a low soft flute,

Or the sounds of a rippling stream,
Or the rich deep music of a lute,

But it renews my dream,
And brings the hidden treasures forth

That lie in memory's store ;
And again to thoughts of that voice gives birth,

That voice I shall hear no more.

No more !—it is not so—my hope

Shall still be strong in Heaven-
Still search around the spacious scope

For peace and comfort given.
We know there is a world above,

Where all the blessed meet,
Where we shall gaze on those we love,

Around the Saviour's feet:
And I shall hear my sister's voice

In holier,
With all those spotless souls rejoice

Before the Eternal Throne.

purer tone

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Weep pot for her, though on her brow

Decline has writ its doom;
Though soon that cheek, so smooth ere now,

Shall moulder in the tomb.
Weep not-although their rosy hue
Those faded lips must ne'er renew;
Although those eyes, O still so bright,
Must set ere long in lasting night.
Weep not-strong as in Him my trust,

Who for mankind was slain,
My hope reviving from the dust

To see that form again.-
Spirit of softness, hie away

To thy own realms of bliss;
And be it mine, at the last day,
In other worlds to recognize
The soft expression of those eyes

Which most I loved in this.

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(MEMOIRS OF THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND.)

FORGIVE me, my beloved sister, if I express myself with more plainness than nearest ties of

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