100. How soon my youth has faded, No medicine could restore me,' Of them I leave behind me, O ye, who Life's gay morning Think much of human weakness: That you may die in peace. 101. To us it appeared mysterious that he should be snatched away in the midst of a life of usefulness; but "my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord." 102. O God, my trust, what though in dust By grace divine my soul is thine, 103. So yields unto the woodman's blow But now, for nobler purpose meet, It falls,—that it may rise-pride of some gallant fleet. His mouldering ashes we deplore A nobler form shall take ere long, Doom'd to obscurity no more; But, with festivity and song, 104. She was a consistent Christian, and faithfully devoted to the interests of her master and mistress, not only in the day of prosperity, but during the dark season of adversity. E 105. No statue bends in mimic gloom, No sculptur'd record spreads his worth 106. This stone will tell thee what is known full well, That all are journeying heavenward, or to hell. Where others go may well be worth thy knowing But think, O Reader, which way thou art going. 107. Here rest the ashes of a Christian warrior, who never wielded lance or sword, and whose hand was guiltless of blood. He wore "the whole armour of God," fought against sin, and conquered in the name of the Most High. No hatchment decorates his tomb; no emblazoned banner floats over his mouldering dust: yet in the great day of account shall he be acknowledged as a faithful soldier of Christ, and be esteemed more than a conqueror. 108. Cheerful he pass'd his days below, In every stage new hopes were lent As To mitigate the cares of life: And when, by disappointment driven Away from earth, they fix'd on heaven. 109. Though all the wealth of all the world 110. Awhile her spirit suffer'd pain; Thus bound the light balloon is bent Amid the clouds to rise Waits only till its cords are rent, Then rushes to the skies. 111. If thou art young, and vain, and proud, No flatterer greets thee in the grave: But dost thou think, fond silly boy, So gallant, gay, and brave, O no! the nettle and the grass 112. Sleep, thou favour'd child of light! |