THE CHURCHYARD LYRIST. 1. How sweet it is to read, mid earthly woes, 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- 2. The Grave can neither withhold the righteous from happiness, nor protect the wicked from unutterable woe. B 3. Why call we that a place of gloom, O rather strew fresh flowerets round, 4. She conducted herself as became a Child of God, giving the clearest evidence that she had not received the grace of God in vain. 5. Nature, when he lost his breath, Weeping cried, "The hand of Death!" Faith, with finger rais'd above, 6. Mortal man, what art thou seeking? Hark! the deep-ton'd grave is speaking: 66 Earth to earth, and dust to dust!" If thou hast not known repentance, Christian, if thy heart be humble, 7. Sorrow tried him;-Faith sustain'd him ;- 8. A fellow mortal, beloved and lamented, moulIders 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. 9. The sceptred hand, the anointed head, Where breasts with proud ambition swell, If kings the shroud of death must wear, 10. Though 'neath this rudely sculptur'd stone, Though here I moulder, dark and deep, The cares that crowd thy earthly lot- Weep not for me: why shouldst thou weep? Ere long, this mouldering dust shall fly Weep not for me: why shouldst thou weep? When from his throne my Saviour cries, If mourn thou must, mourn thy past years; Weep for thyself, with anguish deep, 11. If death be hard to bear as the end of temporal pain, how may it be endured as the beginning of eternal woe? 12. 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. 13. 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. 14. These hillocks green, and mouldering bones, A thousand joys may warm thy breast; Eternal death has dire alarms; |