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How sweet it is to read, mid earthly woes,
Of that bless'd heaven where righteous men re-

pose! Alas! the holy Book of truth and grace Speaks, too, of hell, the sinner's dwelling-place.

By every power that human breasts can move
By endless wrath and everlasting love-
Shun thou that burning gulph, I thee conjure;
Thy Saviour seek, and joy and heaven secure.


The Grave can neither withhold the righteous from happiness, nor protect the wicked from unutterable woe.




Why call we that a place of gloom,

A spot for woe and weeping,
Where, peaceful in the silent tomb,

Our dearest friends are sleeping?
O rather strew fresh flowerets round,

Their heavenly hopes relating,
Who, slumbering here in holy ground,

For golden crowns are waiting.


She conducted herself as became a Child of God, giving the clearest evidence that she had not received the grace of God in vain.


Nature, when he lost his breath,
Weeping cried, 6. The hand of Death !"
Faith, with finger rais'd above,
Whisper'd, “ 'Tis the hand of Love."


Mortal man, what art thou seeking?

What is all thy worldly trust?
Hark! the deep-ton'd grave is speaking:

Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

If thou hast not known repentance,

Slave of sin and worldly lust, Oh, how dreadful is the sentence

Earth to earth, and dust to dust!

Christian, if thy heart be humble,

Heaven is thine amid the just;
Though ten thousand worlds should crumble

Earth to earth, and dust to dust.


Sorrow tried him;-Faith sustain'd him ;-
Earth has lost, and Heaven has gain'd him.


A fellow mortal, beloved and lamented, moulders in the dust. We mark not the stone with his praises: but when the grave shall render up its dead, and the secrets of all hearts shall be known, then will it be made manifest whose he is, and whom he has served.


The sceptred hand, the anointed head,
Must moulder with the silent dead;
For worldly pomp, and kingly power,
Are but the pageants of an hour.
Where breasts with proud ambition swell,
Oh, what a tale is this to tell !
If kings the shroud of death must wear,
Canst thou do better than prepare?


Though 'neath this rudely sculptur'd stone,
Unconsciously I lie alone;
Though here I moulder, dark and deep,
Weep not for me: why shouldst thou weep?

The cares that crowd thy earthly lot-
Thy griefs—thy tears—I know them not.
No dire diseases o'er me creep:-
Weep not for me: why shouldst thou weep?
Ere long, this mouldering dust shall fly
With angel wings to yonder sky;
And golden harvests gladly reap:
Weep not for me: why shouldst thou weep?

When from his throne my Saviour cries,
“Who rest in Christ, awake! arise !”
His voice will rouse me from my sleep:
Weep not for me: why shouldst thou weep?

If mourn thou must, mourn thy past years;
Shed o'er thy sins repentant tears ;
Weep for thyself, with anguish deep,
Weep not for me: why shouldst thou weep?


If death be hard to bear as the end of temporal pain, how


it be endured as the beginning of eternal woe?


Here is laid, in sweet repose,
All a saint awhile can lose,
Gloriously to be resum'd,
When this earth shall be entomb'd
In a more complete decay,
And these heavens shall pass away.


We know not why our little innocents were removed; but, as they were given in mercy, we believe that in mercy they were taken away.


These hillocks green, and mouldering bones,
These gloomy tombs, and letter'd stones,
One sad and solemn truth supply:-
Art ready, reader? thou must die.

A thousand joys may warm thy breast;
Ten thousand cares disturb thy rest;
Thy heart may beat; thy soul may sigh:
Art ready, reader? thou must die.

Eternal death has dire alarms;
Eternal life unnumber'd charms;
A hell below; a heaven on high :
Art ready, reader? thou must die.

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