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Bring trophies of their victories over sin;

The tried and tempted, with their foreheads sealed With the Great Name; the heroes, martyrs, sages,— White robes for the redeemed of countless ages.

There venerated bands

Are bathed in founts of fadeless youth and bloom;
Bent form and furrowed brow, and trembling hands,
And silvered hairs pass not beyond the tomb,
Led by the Master through deep tribulation,
White robes await them,-garments of salvation.

Gathered from orient climes,

And western shores, and tropic forests deep,
From polar winters, and from ancient times
Down to the last fair babe that fell asleep!
By suffering purified; perfected, blest,
And gathered into everlasting rest.

O suffering Lord, through thee

Whose blood alone can make the crimson white!
Looking in pity on our strivings, see

The weight of sin, and make the burden light.
Our robes of righteousness are poor and vain!
Baptize us in that fount that leaves no stain !

Our Faith, Hope, Charity,

Inspire, inform, till they grasp heavenly things,
Till the whole human brotherhood shall lie
In the benignant shadow of their wings;
So purify and bless until there be

White robes at last for even such as we.

THE BLESSED ONES.

Blessed are the early dead,
Sleeping in their narrow bed;
They are happier far than we,
Howsoever blest we be.

LINES,

TO MR. AND MRS. WHITCOMB, ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

A group of flowers were on the green earth springing,
Unfolding sweeter beauties as the hours went by:
Fond, loving hearts were e'er their rich love bringing,
Shielding the blossoms when earth's storms were nigh.
Did'st ever love a young rose in the glad, sweet summer,
And watch its velvet leaves unclosing, soft and fair ?
When in its perfect beauty did there come no murmur
When thou did'st find that blight was hidden there?

Death's presence, shadowy and dim, around each pathway lingers,

His seal is pressed, it may be lightly on each cheek and brow,

And many a hand is clasping the cold, mournful fingers That leadeth ever to the Land where all must go.

Young mother! thrice in thy sweet home has that pale presence entered,

And broken thy opening buds down one by one: Those cherished buds where thy fond love was centered, Leaving thee weeping by the sad hearth-stone.

Look up through thy wild tears, and heed thy pure faith's teaching

That whispers," Death is no enemy to thee: " The fragrance of thy flowers to a far land was reaching, Where storm and blight and withering ne'er will be. Death is a dark winged form that God is ever sending For buds and flowers and fruit to beautify his heaven. He loves a willing gift, and joy will e'er be blending With thy deep grief, if cheerfully thy babes are given.

EMILY A. W. VINTON.

THE MOTHER'S GRIEF.

To mark the sufferings of the babe
That cannot speak its woe;
To see the infant tears gush forth,
Yet know not why they flow;
To meet the meek, uplifted eye
That fain would ask relief,
Yet can but tell of agony-
This is a mother's grief.

Through dreary days and darker nights,
To trace the march of death;
To hear the faint and frequent sigh,
The quick and shortened breath;
To watch the last dread strife draw near,
And pray that struggle brief,
Though all is ended with its close-
This is a mother's grief.

To see in one short hour decayed
The hope of future years;
To feel how vain a father's prayers,
How vain a mother's tears;
To think the cold grave must close
O'er what was once the chief
Of all the treasured joys on earth—
This is a mother's grief.

Yet when the first wild throb is past
Of anguish and despair,

To lift the eye of faith to heaven,
And think my child is there-
This best can dry the gushing tears,
This yield the heart relief,
Until the Christian's pious hope

O'ercomes a mother's grief.

ANGELS' VISITS.

With silence only as their benediction,
God's angels come,

Where, in the shadow of a great affliction,
The soul sits dumb.

Yet would we say, what every heart approveth—
Our Father's will,

Calling to him the dear ones whom he loveth,
Is mercy still.

Not upon us or ours the solemn angel

Hath evil wrought;

The funeral anthem is a glad evangel;

The good die not!

God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly What he has given;

They live on earth in thought and deed as truly As in his heaven.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

FUTURE MEETING.

When shall we meet again?
Meet ne'er to sever?

When will peace wreath her chain

Round us forever?

Our hearts will ne'er repose

Safe from each blast that blows,

In this dark vale of woes,

Never-no, never!

When shall love freely flow

Pure as life's river?

When shall sweet friendship glow
Changeless forever?
Where joys celestial thrill,

Where bliss each heart shall fill,
And fears of parting chill
Never-no, never!

Up to that world of light

Take us dear Savior.
May we all there unite,
Happy forever;

Where kindred spirits dwell,
There may our music swell,
And time our joys dispel
Never-no, never!

Soon shall we meet again,
Meet ne'er to sever;

Soon shall peace wreathe her chain

Round us forever;

Our hearts will then repose
Secure from worldly woes;

Our songs of praise shall close

Never-no, never!

"The Lord gave; the Lord hath taken away; and blessed be the name of the Lord."

"Glory be to the Father,

and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.

Amen."

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