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Shall grace

the brows of one whom ye

Shall in a manger find;

For, him hath God raised up, to be

The Savior of mankind.

"To God be glory! Peace on earth!
Glory to God again!

For, with this infant Savior's birth
There comes good will to men!"
Good will to men! O God, we hail
This, of thy law the sum :
For, as this shall o'er earth prevail,


How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
The disembodied spirits of the dead,

When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
If there I meet thy gentle presence not,
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,

Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven?

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,

And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

The love that lived through all the stormy past,
And meekly with my harsher nature bore,
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
A wait thee there, for thou hast bowed thy will

In cheerful homage to the rule of right,

And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell

Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll;
And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in Heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?

Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this-

The wisdom that is love,-till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?


On mighty is the Lord of Hosts!
He spans the spangled skies;

He speaks, and in its palaces
The midnight thunder cries!

He wields the awful lightning-brand,
The war-torch of the storm,
Whether upon the Northern pines
It rocks its cloud-wrapt form;

Or, conquering, tramps right royally
The hollow-sounding seas,
Or holds high carnival among
The crashing mountain trees!

His earthquakes shake the eternal hills
And toss "old ocean's locks;"
The hungry breakers howl amain,
Between the dreadful shocks:

And the swift whirlwind, spinning o'er
The mountain bald and pale,
Raves wildly to the angry flood
That thunders in the vale.

He sows death in the red simoon,
And cities shrink aghast;

He speaks! and mist-wrapt pestilence,
In horrid gloom, moves past!

Oh mighty is the Lord of Hosts!
Of all earth's kings, the King!
Behold! he shakes the mountain pine,
And plumes the whirlwinds wing!

And from his throne of majesty,

Upon the bended sky,

Around the universe he casts

His all-beholding eye!


She selected the place for her grave in a new cemetery of a rural village, while she felt herself sinking under the power of consumption. She was the first whose remains were laid in that beautiful resting-place of the dead.

WHILE yet she lived, she walked alone
Among these shades.-A voice divine
Whispered, "This spot shall be thine own;
Here shall thy wasting form recline
Beneath the shadow of this pine."

"Thy will be done!" the sufferer said:-
The spot was hallowed from that hour;
And, in her eyes, the evening's shade
And morning's dew this green spot made
More lovely than her bridal bower.

By the pale moon-herself more pale

And spirit-like-these walks she trod;
And while no voice, from swell or vale,
Was heard, she knelt upon this sod,
And gave her spirit back to God.

That spirit, with an angel's wings,

Went up, from the young mother's bed.
So heavenward soars the lark and sings:-
She's lost to earth and earthly things:-
But, "Weep not, for she is not dead,

She sleepeth!"-yea, she sleepeth here;
The first that in these grounds hath slept.

This grave, first watered with the tear
That child or widowed man hath wept,
Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept.

The babe that lay upon her breast,-—

A rose-bud dropped on drifted snow,—
Its young hand in its father's press'd,

Shall learn that she who first caress'd
Its infant cheek now sleeps below.

And often shall he come alone
When not a sound but evening's sigh
Is heard, and, bowing by the stone
That bears his mother's name,
with none
But God and guardian angels by,

Shall say "This was my mother's choice
For her own grave. O, be it mine!
Even now, methinks, I hear her voice
Calling me hence, in the divine
And mournful whisper of this pine."


IF I had Jubal's chorded shell,

O'er which the first-born music rolled, In burning tones, that loved to dwell Amongst those wires of trembling gold; If to my soul one note were given

Of that high harp, whose sweeter tone Caught its majestic strain from heaven, And glowed like fire round Israel's throne;

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