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'Tis hard, when they in death are laid
'Tis hard, when, in our soul's distress,
say, “O Lord! Thy will be done.”
And yet, how light such sorrows be
groan, And said, “O Lord! Thy will be done.”
She dwelt in the untrodden
few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hid from human eye, Clear as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
The difference to me.
She sleeps beneath her native earth,
She rests beneath her native earth;
the desert thrown, That breathed and lived to God alone.
Yet long her gentle ways shall dwell
ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER.
Why should I tell how pure, how bright,
My Sister! was thy early bloom, If memory did not oft invite
To weave poor chaplets round thy tomb? We were but two, the rest were gone,
And our young hearts so close were twisted As if, deserted and alone,
We only on this orb existed.
Like two young plants in joy we grew,
The glory of a widowed mother; We lived and loved, and always knew
Each thought, each feeling of the other. If e'er I smiled; her gentle eye
Was seen at once with joy to brighten; If e'er I grieved, a sister's sigh
Begged half the load, my grief to lighten.
They found her; on her wan white arm
Gently, reclined her drooping head: With cheek so bright, with brow so calm,
It could not be; she was not dead ! They raised her; she had fallen asleep!
She, to whom all our love was given, Had left us here alone to weep;
Had fallen asleep, to wake in heaven.
And so they closed that clear blue eye,
Which seemed to smile on friends around her; As if, while mounting to the sky,
Her God e'en now with joy had crowned her. And then they took the unconscious dead;
They brought it o'er the briny .wave;
But now long years have flitted by;
Now, kneeling at my sister's tomb, I think of immortality:
Her spirit feels no blight or gloom: I think of her, the pure, the bright;
I seem to see her stand before me; And better thoughts and softer light,
E'en as I kneel, come stealing o'er me!
TRANSLATION OF AN EVENING HYMN
OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.
The loved hour of repose is striking; let us come to the sunset tree: let us lie down in the pleasant shade. Ah! how sweet is rest after labour! How I pity those who lie all day long on the couch of down, and are fatigued with doing nothing: they know not the sweetness of rest like ours! Sweet is this hour of
and sweet is the repose of the Sabbath-day; but sweeter will be the repose of that long Sabbath when we shall all rest from our labours in the presence of our heavenly Father. There will be no sun to burn us, there will be no toil--no pain --no poverty-no sorrow--no sin- but sweet and long will be our rest in Heaven.
A RECEIPT FOR HAPPINESS.
TRAVERSE the world, go fly from pole to pole,