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On Christian mourners, while they wait
And such the tones of love, which break
Quelling th' embitter'd spirit's strife-
"Am I believe, and die no more.'
Unchanged that voice-and though not yet
Far better they should sleep awhile
Nor wake, until new heavens, new earth,
For their abiding place be made,
Than wander back to life, and lean
How grows in Paradise our store.
Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on,
Then cheerly to your work again
With hearts new-braced and set
He that was dead rose up and spoke — He spoke ! Was it of that majestic world unknown?
Those words, which first the bier's dead silence
Came they with revelation in each tone? Were the far cities of the nations gone,
The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep, For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone,
Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep? Be hush'd, my soul! the veil of darkness lay Still drawn thy Lord call'd back the voice
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted,
STILLING THE TEMPEST.
"And he arose, aud rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea; ' Peace, be still." "- Mark iv. 39.
FEAR was within the tossing bark,
When stormy winds grew loud;
And men stood breathless in their dread,
But One was there, who rose and said
And the wind ceas'd:-it ceased!-that word
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And slumber settled on the deep,
As when the righteous falls asleep,
Thou that didst rule the angry hour,
And tame the tempest's mood;
Thou that didst bow the billows' pride,
Speak, speak to passion's raging tide,
"And he put them all out, and took her by the hand, and called, saying; 'Maid, arise.' "——— Luke viii. 54.
THEY have watched her last and quivering breath, And the maiden's soul has flown;
They have wrapped her in the robes of death, And laid her, dark and lone.
But the mother casts a look behind,
Upon that fallen flower,
Nay, start not 'twas the gathering wind;
And tremble not at that cheek of snow,
Didst thou not close that expiring eye,
And did not thy lips receive the sigh
She lies on her couch, all pale and hushed,
And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crushed,
Which dies on its snowy bed.
The mother has flown from that lonely room,
Her mother strays with folded arms,
She shuts her thoughts to joy or charms;
But listen! what name salutes her ear?