Than to administer to you, his child ;
And while, in heaven's high mansion, he prepares
The seat of royalty he bids you claim,
Arrays you in a vesture so divine-
Of holiness and goodness like his own-
That when the hour of just adjudgment comes,
All may confess in you the heir of heaven.
Believe the Lord your God is such a one,
And you must love him, even to your soul.

TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.

CREATURE of air and light,
Emblem of that which cannot die,

Wilt thou not speed thy flight,
To chase the south wind through the sunny sky ?

What lures thee thus to stay

With silence and decay,
Fix'd on the wreck of dull mortality ?

The thoughts, once chamber'd there,
Have gather'd up their treasures, and are gone:

Will the dust tell us where
They that have burst their prison-house are flown ?

Rise, nursling of the day,

If thou wouldst trace their way;
Earth has no voice to make the secret known.

Who seeks the vanish'd bird
By the forsaken nest and broken shell?

Far hence he sings unheard,

Yet free and joyous, in the woods to dwell.

There, of the sunshine born,

Take the bright wings of morn; Thy hope calls heavenward from yon ruin'd cell.

A THOUGHT ON DEATH.

When life, as opening buds, is sweet,
And golden hopes the spirit greet,
And youth prepares his joys to meet,

Alas! how hard it is to die !

When scarce is seized some borrow'd prize,
And duties press, and tender ties
Forbid the soul from earth to rise,

How awful then it is to die!

When one by one those ties are torn,
And friend from friend is snatch'd forlorn,
And man is left alone to mourn,

Ah! then how easy 't is to die !
When trembling limbs refuse their weight,
And films, slow gathering, dim the sight,
And clouds obscure the mental light,

'Tis nature's precious boon to die !
When faith is strong, and conscience clear,
And words of peace the spirit cheer,
And vision'd glories half appear,

'T is joy, 't is triumph then to die !

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

O MINGLÈ with the widow's tears

The drops for misery shed;
She bends beneath the weight of years;

Her earthly hope is fled.
Her son-her only son- —is gone!

Oh, who shall wipe that eye ?
For she must journey lonely on,

And solitary die !
The pall upon his corse is spread,

The bier they slowly raise ;
It cannot rouse the slumbering dead,

-That widow'd mother's gaze.

She follows on, without a tear,

Her dear, her darling child :
But who is He that stops the bier,

With look and accent mild ?

The Savior is that pitying one;

His glance her wo disarms“ Young man, arise !”—a living son

Is in his mother's arms!

THE AUTUMN EVENING.

Behold the western evening light!

It melts in deepening gloom : So calmly Christians sink away,

Descending to the tomb. The winds breathe low, the withering leaf

Scarce whispers from the tree: So gently flows the parting breath,

When good men cease to be. How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is shed ! 'T is like the peace the Christian gives

To mourners round his bed.

How mildly on the wandering cloud

The sunset beam is cast! 'T is like the memory left behind

When loved ones breathe their last.

And now,

above the dews of night, The yellow star appears : So faith springs in the hearts of those

Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light

Its glories shall restore;
And eyelids that are seald in death

Shall ope, to close no more.