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What shall the future progress be

Of life with me?
God knows, — I roll on Him my care, —
Night is not night if He be there.
When daylight is no longer mine,
And stars forbidden are to shine,

I'll turn my eyes
To where eternal day shall rise.

That coming light no mortal cloud

Can quite enshroud !
Through all our doubts, — above the range
Of every fear, and every change, -
My faith can see, with weary eye,
The dawn of heaven on earth’s dim sky;

And from afar
Shines on my soul the morning star.

Hymns of the Church Militant.

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COD of my childhood and my youth,

J The Guide of all my days,
I have declared thy heavenly truth,

And told thy wondrous ways.

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Let me thy power and truth proclaim

Before the rising age,
And leave a savor of thy name

When I shall quit the stage.

The land of silence and of death

Attends my next remove;
O may these poor remains of breath
Teach all the world thy love!

Isaac Watts.

1674 – 1748.

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See smiling patience smooth his brow!
See bending angels downward bow,

To cheer his way on high !

While, eager for the blest abode,
He joins with them to praise the God

Who taught him how to die.

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O grant, my Father and my friend,
Such joys may gild my peaceful end, -

So calm my evening close ;
While, loosed from every earthly tie,
With steady confidence I fly
To Thee from whom I rose.

W. Boston Coll.

THE hour of my departure 's come ;

T I hear the voice that calls me home:
Now, O my Lord, let trouble cease,
Now let thy servant die in peace.

The race appointed I have run;
The combat 's o'er, the prize is won ;
And now my witness is on high,
And now my record 's in the sky.

I leave the world without a tear,
Save for the friends I held so dear:
To heal their sorrows, Lord, descend,
And to the friendless prove a friend.

I come, I come ; at thy command,
I give my spirit to thy hand;
Stretch forth thine everlasting arms,
And shield me in the last alarms.

The hour of my departure 's come ;
I hear the voice that calls me home:
Now, O my God, let trouble cease ;
Now let thy servant die in peace.

John Logan.

1770.

L OW blest is he whose tranquil mind,
IT When life declines, recalls again
The years that time has cast behind,

And reaps delight from toil and pain.

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THE RIVER PATH.

N O bird-song floated down the hill,
IV The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,
No ripple from the water's hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew;
For, from us, ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.
But on the river's farther side
We saw the hill-tops glorified, —
A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare.
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom :
With them the sunset's rosy bloom ;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river rolled in shade between.
From out the darkness where we trod
We gazed upon those hills of God,
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun.
We spake not, but our thought was one.

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