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Ascend! thou art not now

With those of mortal birth ;
The living God hath touched thy lips,
Thou who hast done with earth!

Mrs. Howitt. 1860. HE AVEN.

THE NEW SONG.

DEYOND the hills where suns go down,

D And brightly beckon as they go, I see the land of far renown,

The land which I so soon shall know.

Above the diffonance of time,

And discord of its angry words, I hear the everlasting chime,

The music of unjarring chords.

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O song of light and dawn and bliss,

Sound over earth, and fill these skies, Nor ever, ever, ever cease

Thy soul-entrancing melodies !

Glad song of this disburdened earth,

Which holy voices then shall sing : Praise for creation's second birth, And glory to creation's King!

H. Bonar.

1856.

THE OTHER WORLD.

IT lies around us like a cloud, -
1 A world we do not see ;
Yet the sweet closing of an eye

May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek;

Amid our worldly cares
Its gentle voices whisper love,

And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,

Sweet helping hands are stirred, And palpitates the veil between

With breathings almost heard.

The silence - awful, sweet, and calm

They have no power to break; For mortal words are not for them To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,

So near to press they seem, — They seem to lull us to our rest,

And melt into our dream.

And in the hush of rest they bring

'T is easy now to see How lovely and how sweet a pass

The hour of death may be.

To close the eye, and close the ear,

Wrapped in a trance of bliss, And gently dream in loving arms

To swoon to that — from this.

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Sweet souls around us ! watch us still,

Press nearer to our side,
Into our thoughts, into our prayers,

With gentle helpings glide.

Let death between us be as naught,

A dried and vanished stream:
Your joy be the reality,
Our suffering life the dream.

Mrs. H. B. Stowe.

1860. FOREVER with the Lord ! T Amen! so let it be ! Life from the dead is in that word,

And immortality.

Here in the body pent,

Absent from Him I roam, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent

A day's march nearer home.

My Father's house on high,

Home of my soul ! how near, · At times, to faith's foreseeing eye

Thy golden gates appear !

Ah! then my spirit faints

To reach the land I love,
The bright inheritance of saints,

Jerusalem above !

Yet clouds will intervene,

And all my prospect Aies ; Like Noah's dove, I Ait between

Rough seas and stormy skies.

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