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As a wayward child my heavenly Father corrected me; as a chastened penitent he called me to his bosom.


Hope not, vain mortal, that a sculptur'd bust
Can give an immortality to dust:
The proudest potentate that fills a throne
Will soon, alas! be nothing, and unknown.
“Who rais’d yon mouldering monument?" I sigh’d,
And paus’d for a reply: but none replied.
T'ime pass’d me by, and answer'd with a frown,

Whoever rais'd it, I will pull it down.”


Baby, baby, sleeping baby,

No rude sound shall break thy rest;
Here thy little head shall slumber

Soft as on thy mother's breast.
While the noisy world about thee

In confusion rumbles by,
Peace shall linger here, and give thee

One eternal lullaby.
Softly! did I say, “eternal ?"

There are realms of joy and glory

High in heaven reserv'd for thee.

0, no,

may never be:

When the trump that wakes the wicked

Bids them every hope resign; Though their ears with terrors tingle,

Whispers soft shall breathe in thine

Baby, baby, sleeping baby,

Wake thee with immortal charms; Light, and love, and heaven are round thee:

Thou art in thy Saviour's arms. Jesus waits, and places gently

Glory's crown upon thy brow; Rise, and with thy spirit praise him:

Heaven was made for such as thou."


The lowly tenant of this grave design’d
No mighty deed to benefit mankind;
From youth to age he pass'd his little span,
An honest, inoffensive, labouring man.

If this be praise, while in the world we dwell,
To do our duty, and to do it well,
A brighter lustre to this stone is lent
Than shines round many a marble monument.


Art thou a thoughtless child of mirth?
Stay: for beneath this hallow'd earth
The young, the beautiful, reposes;

her alter'd form incloses.

Thy heart O let the moral reach!
O let the dead the living teach!
Trifler, prepare, for life is fleet,
Prepare, prepare, thy God to meet.

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Art thou a child of sorrow? Stay;
For comfort can this grave convey:
She, who must here till doomsday sleep,
How early has she ceas'd to weep!
How large a recompence in heaven
To her—for she was Christ's—is given !
Lean thou on Christ, he soon shall rn
To smiles their tears who meekly mourn.


If to lack the knowledge of the world be ignorance, he was ignorant. If to know him whom to know is life eternal be wisdom, he was wise.


O there is a heaven of enjoyment and love,

All lightsome, and glorious, and free:
If thou hast not lifted thy thoughts above,

That heaven is no heaven for thee.

The Saviour has suffer'd pain, peril, and loss,

That the sinner salvation might see:
If thou art not found at the foot of his cross,

That salvation is not for thee.

A hell should affright thee, a heaven should al

lure; Thy life, O how short it


be ! Think, then, what thy soul may enjoy or endure,

And let Christ be a Saviour to thee.


If thou art bound by pleasure's spell,

By pride and passion driven;
A thousand paths may lead to hell,

One only leads to heaven.
O wouldst thou dwell, with raptur'd eyes,

Near God's eternal throne ?
“ I am the way y!” the Saviour cries:
Walk in that




Were tombs proportion'd to desert alone,
Thou wouldst not read this simply-letter'd stone;
For then His honour'd dust, o'er which we sigh,
Entomb'd beneath a pyramid would lie.


O God! if sinners did but know the doom
That waits the wicked when beyond the tomb;
As drowning sailors struggling in the sea
Cry out aloud, so would they call on thee:
Oppress'd with terror, call, ere life were o'er,
O save us! or we perish evermore.”


The stone that flatters the dead deceives the living.


As some kind parent, when beguild,

Rebukes the son he loves the best,
Then fondly calls the chasten'd child

And clasps him closer to his breast;-
So, when the trial-hour was past,

And he the thorny path had trod,
His aching bosom found at last

A Friend and Father in his God.


This world is a desert where beautiful flowers

Are hid by the weeds from sight; But God has prepar'd celestial bowers,

Where never comes weed nor blight.

And thither the choicest he first removes,

For ever and ever to bloom ;
And when he has gather'd in all he loves,

The flames shall the rest consume:

Even all who to slight his grace have dar'd,

And died in mortal sin;
For a furnace fierce has his wrath prepar’d,

And the weeds shall be cast therein.

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