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There let the spirit of the wind
A heaven-reared tabernacle find
To warble wild a vesper hymn,

To soothe my shade at twilight dim!
Seldom let foot of man be there,

Save bending towards the house of prayer:
Few human sounds disturb the calm,
Save word of grace or solemn psalm!
Yet would I not my humble tomb
Should wear an uninviting gloom
As though there ever brooded near,
In fancy's ken, a thing of fear;
And viewed with superstitious awe,
Be duly shunned, and scarcely draw
The sidelong glance of passer-by,
As haunt of sprite with blasting eye;
Or noted be by some sad token,
Bearing a name in whispers spoken!
No!-let the thoughtful schoolboy stray
Far from his giddy mates at play,
My secret place of rest explore,
There con the page of classic lore :---
Thither let hoary men of age
Perform a pensive pilgrimage,

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And think, as o'er my grave they bend,
It wooes them to their welcome end:-
But, chiefly, let the friend sincere
There drop a tributary tear;

There pause, in musing mood, and all
Our bygone hours of bliss recall;
Delightful hours! too fleetly flown!
By the heart's pulses only known!

JOHN RAMSAY,

THE CHRISTIAN'S GRAVE.

HEN by a good man's grave I muse alone, Methinks an angel sits upon the stone, And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear, Says, pointing upward, "Know, He is not here."

ROGERS.

THE CHRISTIAN'S GRAVE.

HERE is a spot—a lovely spot,
Embosomed in a valley's dell,

The eye of splendour marks it not,
Nor travellers of its beauties tell.

The hazel forms a green bower there;
Beneath the grassy covering lies;
And forest flowers surpassing fair,
Mingle their soft and lovely dyes.

Morn decks the spot with many a gem,
And the first break of eastern ray
Lights up a spark in each of them,
That seems to hail the opening day.

When first that beam of morning breaks,
The fancy here a smile may see,
Like that when first the saint awakes
At dawn of immortality.

The free birds love to seek the shade,
And here they sing their sweetest lays;
Meet requiem!-He who there is laid,

Breathed his last dying voice in praise.

And here the villager will stray,
What time his daily work is done,
When evening sheds the western ray
Of sweet departing summer sun.

On lovely lips his name is found,

And simple hearts yet hold him dear; The patriarch of the village round,— The pastor of the chapel near.

The holy cautions that he gave,—

The prayers he breathed-the tears he wept,— Yet linger here, though in his grave,

Through many a year the saint has slept.

And oft the villager has said,—
"Oh, I remember when a child,
He placed his hand upon my head,

And blessed me then, and sweetly smiled.

'Twas he that led me to my God,

And taught me to obey his will; The holy path which he has trod, Oh, be it mine to follow still."

Graves of the righteous! surely there
The sweetest bloom of beauty is:

Oh, may I sleep in couch as fair,
And with a hope as bright as his.

EDMESTON.

THE GRAVE.

HERE is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found:
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the wintry sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose.

I long to lay this painful head,
And aching heart beneath the soil;
To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil.

The Grave, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide;
O listen!-I will speak no more:-
Be silent, pride!

"Art thou a mourner? hast thou known The joy of innocent delights, Endearing days for ever flown

And tranquil nights?

Oh, live and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past;
Rely on Heaven's unchanging will
For peace at last.

Though long of winds and waves the sport,
Condemned in wretchedness to roam;
Live! thou shalt reach a sheltering port,
A quite home.

Seek the true treasure seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound
With heavenly balm.

Whate'er thy lot, where'er thou be-
Confess thy folly-kiss the rod;
And in thy chastening sorrows see
The hand of God.

A bruiséd reed he will not break;
Afflictions all his children feel;

He wounds them for his mercy's sake;
He wounds to heal!

Humbled beneath his mighty hand,
Prostrate, his providence adore:
'Tis done! arise! he bids thee stand,
To fall no more.

Now, traveller in the vale of tears
To realms of everlasting light,

Through Time's dark wilderness of years,
Pursue thy flight.

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HEY grew in beauty, side by side,

They filled one home with glee ;— Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.

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