Rest for the fevered brain,

Rest for the throbbing eye;

Thro' these parched lips of thine no more,
Shall pass the moan or sigh.

Soon shall the trump of God

Give out the welcome sound,
That shakes the silent chamber-walls
And breaks the turf-sealed ground.

Ye dwellers in the dust,

Awake, come forth, and sing;
Sharp has your frost of winter been,
But bright shall be your spring.

"Twas sown in weakness here;

"Twill then be raised in power.
That which was sown an earthly seed,
Shall rise a heavenly flower.

REST.

Nor long, not long! The spirit-wasting fever Of this strange life shall quit each throbbing vein;

And this wild pulse flow placidly for ever;

And endless peace relieve the burning brain

Earth's joys are but a dream; its destiny
Is but decay and death. Its fairest form
Sunshine and shadow mixed. Its brightest
day

A rain bow braided on the wreaths of storm.

Yet there is blessedness that changeth not;
A rest with God, a life that cannot die;
A better portion, and a brighter lot;

A home with Christ, a heritage on high.

Hope for the hopeless, for the weary rest, More gentle than the still repose of even! Joy for the joyless, bliss for the unblest; Homes for the desolate in yonder heaven

The tempest makes returning calm more dear; The darkest midnight makes the brightest star,

Even so to us when all is ended here,

Shall be the past, remembered from afar.

Then welcome change and death! Since these alone

Can break life's fetters, and dissolve its spell; Welcome all present change, which speeds us on So swift to that which is unchangeable.

A PILGRIM'S SONG.

A FEW more years shall roll,
A few more seasons come;
And we shall be with those that rest,
Asleep within the tomb.
Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that great day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more suns shall set

O'er these dark hills of time; And we shall be where suns are not, A far serener clime.

Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that blest day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more storms shall beat
On this wild rocky shore;
And we shall be where tempests cease,
And surges swell no more.
Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that calm day;

O, wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A PILGRIM'S SONG.

A few more struggles here,

A few more partings o'er,
A few more toils, a few more tears,
And we shall weep no more.
Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that bright day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more Sabbaths here

Shall cheer us on our way;
And we shall reach the endless rest,
The eternal Sabbath-day.*
Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that sweet day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

"Tis but a little while

And He shall come again,

Who died that we might live, who lives

That we with Him may reign.

Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that glad day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

The old Latin hymn expresses this well :

"Illic nec sabbato

Succedit sabbatum,

Perpes lætitia

Sabbatizantium."

77

QUIS SEPARABIT

"Tis thus they press the hand and part,
Thus have they bid farewell again :
Yet still they commune, heart with heart,
Linked by a never-broken chain.

Still one in life and one in death,
One in their hope of rest above,
'ne in their joy, their trust, their faith,
One in each other's faithful love.

Yet must they part, and parting, weep; What else has earth for them in store? These farewell pangs, how sharp and deep, These farewell words, how sad and sore!

Yet shall they meet again in peace,
To sing the song of festal joy,
Where none shall bid their gladness cease,
And none their fellowship destroy.

Where none shall beckon them away,
Nor bid their festival be done; *
Their meeting-time the eternal day,
Their meeting-place the eternal throne.

"Ibi festivitas sine fine."-Augustine.