Through wakeful nights, when rack'd with pain,
On bed of languishing you lie,
Remember ftill your God is near,
To wipe the tear from ev'ry eye.

A few fhort years and all is o'er,

Your forrow-pain-will foon pass by;
Then lean in faith on God's dear Son,
He'll wipe the tear from ev'ry eye.

Oh! never be your foul caft down,
Nor let your heart defponding figh;
Affur'd that God, whofe name is love,
Will wipe the tear from ev'ry eye.

MRS. MACKINLAY.

XLVII.

HOLY SORROW.

HEN the fpark of life is waning,

Weep not for me

When the languid eye is ftraining,
Weep not for me.

When the feeble pulfe is ceafing,

Start not at its swift decreasing,

"Tis the fettered foul's releafing;

Weep not for me.

When the pangs of death affail me,
Weep not for me-

Christ is mine, He cannot fail me,-
Weep not for me.

Yes, though fin and doubt endeavour
From His love my foul to fever,

Jefus is my ftrength-for ever!
Weep not for me.

DALE.

XLVIII.

HOLY SORROW.

HEN thefe dark hours of earthly love
And earthly pangs are o'er,

Thefe lips fhall bless, these hands shall

move,

Thefe eyes fhall look no more.

Oh! let no tear thine eyelid dim,
O'er this pale form of clay;
But think I reft at peace with Him,
Who wipes all tears away.

These lips transformed refound the words,

"Hofanna to the Lamb!"—

These hands transfigured sweep the chords
That praise the great “I am.”

These hollow eyes but feem to fleep,
For ah! to them 'tis given

One endless watch of blifs to keep,
For they have waked in Heaven!

ROBERT MCGHEE.

XLIX.

HOLY SORROW.

H! deem not they are bleffed alone,
Whofe lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man has shown
A bleffing for the eyes that weep.

The light of fmiles fhall fill again
The lid that overflows with tears;
And weary hours of woe and pain
Are promises of happy years.

There is a day of funny reft,

For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide, an evening gueft, But joy fhall come with early light.

And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier,
Sheddeft the bitter drops like rain,

Hope that a happier, brighter fhore,
Will give him to thine arms again.

Nor let the good man's truft depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,
Though pierced and broken be his heart,
And fpurn'd of men he goes to die.

For God has mark'd each forrowing day,
And number'd every fecret tear,
And Heaven's long age of blifs fhall pay
For all its children fuffer here.

BRYANT.

L.

HOLY SORROW.

S it not fweet to think hereafter,
When the spirit leaves this fphere,
Love with deathlefs wing fhall waft
her

To those fhe long hath mourned for
here?

Hearts from which 'twas death to fever,

Eyes this world can ne'er restore ; There as warm, as bright as ever, Shall meet us, and be loft no more?

When wearily we wander, afking

Of Earth and Heaven, where are they Beneath whofe fmile we once lay basking, Bleft, and thinking blifs would ftay?

Hope ftill lifts her radiant finger,
Pointing to the eternal home,
Upon whofe portal yet they linger,
Looking back for us to come!

Alas! alas! doth hope deceive us?

Shall friendship, love, and all those ties
Which bind a moment, and then leave us,
Be found again where nothing dies?
Oh! if no other boon were given,

To wean our hearts from wrong and stain,
Who would not seek to reach a Heaven,
Where all we love fhall live again?

THOMAS MOORE.

A

LI.

HOLY SORROW.

FLOWER beheld a ftar above

And longed to reach its airy love,-
But longed in vain, a dew-drop fell
Into its foft and fragrant cell—

And then the ftar was imaged there,

And gliding down from Heaven had come
To find, on earth, a kindred home.

A fpirit gazed on Heaven above,
And longed to centre there its love,-
But longed in vain, this funny world
Still kept its skyward pinions furled.