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Farewell! Farewell! beloved shade,-
Long shall thy memory linger here,
Till they that loved thee too are dead,

And mingling in another sphere;
Where death's cold hand can never tear
The ties that bound us shortly here.

Oh! happy was that change to thee,
When death appeared without a frown ;
And life-and immortality-

Displayed thy bright unfading crown!
For thou wert faithful to the call,
Which raised thee as a guide to all.

Well may they weep, who round thee hung,—
The church shall long thy loss deplore;
For oh that heart is cold,—that tongue

On earth shall praise our God no more :
For thou hast joined the hosts above
That triumph through redeeming love!

No more by care and sorrow worn,

The voice reproves each dull delay; And O no more shall they who mourn,

Hear thy kind voice in sorrow's day : And who shall them conduct and guide, On life's tempestuous swelling tide ?

Still trust in God!' our hearts may hear
The parting words-the last he gave,
When death's cold hand was lingering near,
Which brought him quickly to the grave!
That bed from which none shall arise,
Till heaven's last thunder rends the skies.

Then, may our souls devoutly think,

How short a step divides the tomb;
We're standing on an awful brink,

And moments soon will seal our doom!
Yes! all who mourn his sudden call,
Must soon obey-it speaks to all!



The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.


Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.


For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.


And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride.
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.


And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.


And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;



And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!



Fond, fluttering insect, cease to urge thy fate,
Thy silken wing presenting to the flame;
Quick, let me save thee ere it be too late,

Ere the false day devour thy filmy frame.

There, take thy chance, poor heedless innocent,
I catch thee, life and freedom to restore;
Go, rove at large the unbounded element,

And live thy little life's short period o'er.

Ah! why, like thee, will man destruction brave,
With blind temerity provoke his doom,
Spurn the kind lifted hand that wants to save,

And madly hasten where he must consume!

Scorched he returns, the experienced ill defies,
Rushes on ruin, flutters, flames, and dies




It is an easy task, for hearts at rest,

To talk of brighter days to the distressed;
To shew us joys the future may reveal,
And speak of that composure which they feel.
They may remind us, tears and sighs are vain-
Alas! can hopelessness diminish pain?
They say, when God afflicts us, it is fit
That men should suffer meekly, and submit;
Yes-we submit, and place our trust alone
In one last hope to go where they are gone;
Gone-where the pure in heart again shall meet;
Ah, yes! our prospect would be incomplete
Did we not hope to share the perfect bliss
Of that bright world, with friends so dear in this;
And recognise those forms, in realms above,
Who claimed on earth our fondest-purest love.—
Thomas Bayly.

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