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We paused, as if from that bright fhore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before;

And ftilled our beating hearts to hear
The voices loft to mortal ear!

Sudden our pathway turned from night;
The hills swung open to the light;

Through their green gates the sunfhine fhowed,
A long, flant splendor downward flowed.

Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;
It bridged the fhaded ftream with gold;

And, borne on piers of mift, allied
The fhadowy with the sunlit fide!

"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near The river, dark with mortal fear,

"And the night cometh chill with dew,
O Father! let thy light break through!

"So let the hills of doubt divide,
So bridge with faith the sunless tide!

"So let the eyes that fail on earth
On thy eternal hills look forth;

"And in thy beckoning angels know
The dear ones whom we loved below!"

J. G. Whittier. i860.

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OUR pathway oft is wet with tears,
Our fky with clouds o'ercaft,
And worldly cares and worldly fears

Go with us to the laft ; —
Not to the laft! God's word hath said,

Could we but read aright:
O pilgrim! lift in hope thy head,
At eve it fhall be light!

Though earth-born fhadows now may fhroud

Our toilsome path awhile,
God's blefled word can part each cloud,

And bid the sunfhine smile.
If we but truft in living faith,

His love and power divine,
Then, though our sun may set in death,

His light fhall round us fhine.

When tempeft-clouds are dark on high,

His bow of love and peace
Shines beauteous in the vaulted fky,

A pledge that ftorms fhall cease.

Then keep we on, with hope unchilled,

And we fhall own His word fulfilled,—
At eve it fhall be light!

Bernard Barton.

GRACIOUS Source of every blefling!
Guard our breafts from anxious fears;
Let us each, thy care poflefling,
Sink into the vale of years.

All our hopes on thee reclining,

Peace companion of our way, May our sun, in smiles declining,

Rise in everlafting day.

By faith and not by fight,




BEHOLD the weftern evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom:
So calmly Chriftians fink away,
Descending to the tomb.

The winds breathe low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree:

So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is {hed!
'T is like the peace the Chriftian gives

To mourners round his bed.

How mildly on the wandering cloud

The sunset beam is caft!
'T is like the memory left behind,

When loved ones breathe their laft.

And now above the dews of night

The vesper-ftar appears:
So faith springs in the heart of those

Whose eyes are bathed in tears.

But soon the morning's happier light

Its glory fhall reftore,
And eyelids that are sealed in death

Shall wake to close no more.

W. B. O. Peabody. 1840.


THE hour, the hour, the parting hour,
That takes from this dark world its power,
And lays at once the thorn and flower

On the same withering bier, my soul!
The hour that ends all earthly woes,
And gives the wearied soul repose,—
How soft, how sweet, that laft long close
Of mortal hope and fear, my soul!

How sweet, while on this broken lyre
The melodies of time expire,
To feel it ftrung with chords of fire
To praise the Immortal One, my soul!

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