Oh, let us feel in all thy care, While still the sands of life shall run- When those we love give up their breath, The fever'd lip, the burning brain, Sigh soft, "Thy will be done." The Lord of life, who taught us how, Wrapt in a vest of mortal clay, Thrice knelt, and thrice aloud did cry- 66 Father, Thy will be done." W. MARTIN. HYMN. HOURS and days, and months, and years, And in vain would sighs and tears Soon shall be a life with thee. For beyond it we discover Life that never knows an end. 'Mid the woes that life attend, Still for rest we turn to thee, God, a father, and a friend, Changeless in his Son we see. Father aye in all our need, When into the grave we go, Our eternal Fatherland. DUTCH ANTHOLOGY. SHALL WE BUILD. LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD, MATT. xvii. 4. METHINKS it is good to be here, If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom? Nor Elias, nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve, that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to ambition? Oh, no! Affrighted he shrinketh away; For see! they would fix him below, In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey! To beauty? Ah, no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before Nor knows the foul worm, that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore For the smoothness it held, and the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside, And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, But the long winding sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. To riches? alas! 'tis in vain, Who hid, in their turns have been hid, The treasures are squander'd again; And here in the grave are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin lid. To the pleasures which mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute at their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here! Shall we build to affection and love? Ah, no! they have wither'd and died, Or fled with the spirit above. Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted and none have replied! Unto sorrow? the dead cannot grieve, Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve! Ah! sweetly they slumber; nor hope, love, nor fear; Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here! Unto death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfill'd; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies. HERBERT KNOWLES. LUTHER'S HYMN. 'Tis not too hard, too high an aim, Act but the infant's gentle part, Yearns, like thy God's, to make thee blest; |