Benign restorer of the soul, Who ever fliest to bring relief, When first we feel the rude control Of love or pity, joy or grief. The sage's and the poet's theme, That very law which moulds a tear, That law preserves the earth a sphere, ELEGIAC STANZAS. Rogers. Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, Their leaves, the earliest of the year, And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom. And oft by yon blue gushing stream, Shall sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream; Away!—we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain, Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou, who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan-thy eyes are wet! A FUNERAL HYMN. Beneath our feet, and o'er our head, Beneath us lie the countless dead, Above us is the heaven! Their names are graven on the stone, Their bones are in the clay; And ere another day is done, Ourselves may be as they. Byron. Death rides on every passing breeze, He lurks in every flower; Each season has its own disease, Its peril every hour! Our eyes have seen the steps of age Halt feebly t'wards the tomb, And yet shall earth our hearts engage, Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know; The earth rings hollow from below, Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply The bones that underneath thee lie Shall live for hell or heaven. Bishop Heber. CONTENTMENT. Fierce passions discompose the mind, But calm content and peace we find, In vain by reason and by rule, For none but in the Saviour's school Since at his feet my soul has sat, 'Art thou a sinner, soul?' he said; Then how canst thou complain; How light thy troubles here, if weighed With everlasting pain. If thou of murmuring would'st be cured, Think what my love for thee endured, 'Tis I appoint thy daily lot, And I do all things well; Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot, And rise with me to dwell. In life my grace shall strength supply, At death thou still shalt find me nigh, Thus I, who once my wretched days In vain repining spent ; Taught in my Saviour's school of grace, Have learned to be content. FUNERAL ANTHEM. Brother, thou art gone before us, And thy saintly soul is flown, Cowper. |