"AS THY DAYS, SO SHALL THY
STRENGTH BE.”
WHEN press the many cares of life,
Think of that morn to come, so bright;
Through all the burden and the strife,
Remember,—that beyond there's light.
It may be that grief's day is long,
And round thee little sympathy;
But even so, His love is strong,
"And as thy day, thy strength shall be."
No needless sorrow e'er was sent
To bruise thy wearied, saddened heart;
With each deep wound, His love is blent,
Though now thou feelest but the smart.
Go not half way to meet fresh grief,
To-day's own burden is enough;
In time He'll send thee sweet relief,
Though now perchance the road be rough.
And when life's weary day is o'er,
When the cloud unveiled shall be;
When heavy trials press no more,
And the shadows all shall flee.
Then shalt thou own thy Father's care,
Though hard at times His hand to trace,
So forward go,-nor let despair
Find in thy anxious heart a place.
MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.
BENEATH the chancel's hallowed stone,
Exposed to every rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners known,
My brother, is thy lonely bed.
Few words, upon the rough stone graven,
Thy name-thy birth-thy youth declare-
Thy innocence-thy hopes of heaven,
In simplest phrase recorded there.
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery o'er my brother's grave!
The place is silent.-Rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walls around,
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet
Discoursing in the public street;
Nor hum of business dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell,
From neighbouring fort or citadel;
No sound of human toil or strife
In death's lone dwelling speaks of life,
Or breaks the silence still and deep
Where thou, beneath thy burial-stone,
Art laid in that unstartled sleep
The living eye hath never known.
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As slowly pacing through the aisle,
He sweeps the unholy dust away,
And cobwebs, which must not defile
Those windows on the Sabbath-day;
And, passing through the central wave,
Treads lightly on my brother's grave.
But when the sweet-toned Sabbath chime,
Pouring its music on the breeze,
Proclaims the well-known holy time
Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees;
When rustic crowds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given, And souls enjoy oblivion sweet
Of earthly ills, in thoughts of heaven;
What voice of calm and solemn tone
Is heard above thy burial-stone?
What form in white and meek array
Beside the altar kneels to pray?
What holy hands are lifted up
To bless the sacramental cup?
Full well I know that reverend form,
And if a voice could reach the dead,
Those tones would reach thee, though the worn,
My brother, makes thy heart his bed.
That sire, who thy existence gave,
Now stands beside thy lowly grave.
It is not long since thou were wont
Within these sacred walls to kneel;
This altar, that baptismal font,
- These stones which now thy dust conceal,
The sweet tones of the Sabbath bell,
Were holiest objects to thy soul;
On these thy spirit loved to dwell,
Untainted by the world's control.
My brother, those were happy days,
When thou and I were children yet!
How fondly memory still surveys Those scenes the heart can ne'er forget! My soul was then, as thine is now, Unstained by sin, unstung by pain ; Peace smiled on each unclouded brow— Mine ne'er will be so calm again. How blithely then we hailed the ray Which ushered in the Sabbath-day! How lightly then our footsteps trod Yon pathway to the house of God! For souls, in which no dark offence Hath sullied childhood's innocence, Best meet the pure and hallowed shrine Which guiltier bosoms own divine.
I feel not now, as then I felt ;-
The sunshine of my heart is o'er;
The spirit now is changed which dwelt
Within me, in the days of yore.
But thou wert snatched, my brother, hence
In all thy guileless innocence ;
One Sabbath saw thee bend the knee,
In reverential piety,—
(For childless faults forgiveness crave)
The next beamed brightly on thy grave.
The crowd, of which thou late wert one,
Now throng across thy burial-stone ;
Rude footsteps trample on the spot,
Where thou liest mouldering-not forgot ;
And some few gentler bosoms weep,
In silence, o'er thy last long sleep.
I stood not by thy feverish bed,
I looked not on thy glazing eye,
Nor gently lulled thy aching head,
Nor viewed thy dying agony ;
I felt not what my parents felt,—
The doubt the terror-the distress ;-
Nor vainly for my brother knelt ;—
My soul was spared that wretchedness:
One sentence told me in a breath,
My brother's illness and his death!
And days of mourning glided by,
And brought me back my gaiety;
For soon in childhood's wayward heart
Doth crushed affection ceased to smart ;
Again I joined the sportive crowd
Of boyish playmates, wild and loud;
I learnt to view with careless eye
My sable garb of misery ;
No more I wept my brother's lot,—
His image was almost forgot;
And every deeper shade of pain
Had vanished from my soul again.
The well-known morn, I used to greet
With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, And thoughts of home and raptures sweet In every eye but mine were gleaming; But I, amidst that youthful band
Of bounding hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor smiled, nor spoke at joy's command,
Nor felt those wonted ecstasies!
I loved my home, but trembled now
To view my father's altered brow;
I feared to meet my mother's eye,
And hear her voice of agony;
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