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PART I.

CHRISTIAN CONSOLATION;

OR,

HEAVEN OUR HOME.

“THE GRAVE IS EARTH'S LIMIT; HEAVEN IS OUR HOME."

En Memoriam

ELIZABETH

BT

CLARA HANNAH ELIZABETH.

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CHRISTIAN CONSOLATION.

IF there is anything about us which good hearts will reverence, it is our grief on the loss of those we love. It is a condition in which we seem smitten by a Divine hand, and thus made sacred. It is a grief, too, which greatly enriches the heart, when rightly borne. There may be no rebellion of the will; the sweetest sentiments towards God and our fellow-beings may be deepened, and, still, the desolation caused in the treasured sympathies and hopes of the heart gives a new colour to the entire scene of life. The dear affections which grow out of the consanguinities and connections of life, next to those we owe to God, are the most sacred of our being; and, if the hopes and revelations of a future state did not come to our aid, our grief would be immoderate and inconsolable when these relations are broken by death.

HOOKER.

If, dumb too long, the pensive muse hath stay'd,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid ;
Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, oh! judge my bosom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires !
Slow comes the verse, that real woe inspires :

Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the dismal night, that gave
My soul's best part for ever to the grave ?
How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Through breathing statues—then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings.

*

In what new region, to the just assign'd-
What new employments please th' unbodied mind?

A seraph virtue, through the ethereal dome
From world to world unwearied dost thou come ?
Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend !
When age misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

TICKEL.
When the last sunshine of expiring day
In summer's twilight weeps itself away ;
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower,

feeling which absorbs and awes,
While nature makes that melancholy pause-
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime ?

With a pure

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