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2 The winds breathe low;-the yellow leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree:
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

3 How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed!

'Tis like the peace the Christian gives To mourners round his bed.

4 How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!

So sweet the memory left behind
When loved ones breathe their last.

5 And lo! above the dews of night
The vesper-star appears!

So faith lights up the mourner's heart,
Whose eyes are dim with tears.

6 Night falls, but soon the morning light Its glories shall restore;

And thus the eyes that sleep in death
Shall wake to close no more.

685.

L. M.

NORTON.

Blessedness of the pious dead.

10 STAY thy tears; for they are blest,
Whose days are past, whose toil is done:
Here midnight care disturbs our rest;
Here sorrow dims the noonday sun.

2 How blest are they whose transient years
Pass like an evening meteor's flight!
Nor dark with guilt, nor dim with tears;
Whose course is short, unclouded, bright.

3 0, cheerless were our lengthened way;
But Heaven's own light dispels the gloom,
Streams downward from eternal day,
And casts a glory round the tomb.

4 O, stay thy tears; the blest above
Have hailed a spirit's heavenly birth,
And sing a song of joy and love;
Then why should anguish reign on earth?

686. 8 & 7s. M. S. F. SMITH.
The Departed.

1 SISTER, thou wast mild and lovely,
Gentle as the summer breeze,
Pleasant as the air of evening,
When it floats among the trees.

2 Peaceful be thy silent slumber,-
Peaceful in the grave so low;
Thou no more wilt join our number;
Thou no more our song shalt know.

3 Dearest sister, thou hast left us;
Here thy loss we deeply feel;
But 't is God that hath bereft us:
He can all our sorrows heal.

4 Yet again we hope to meet thee,
When the day of life is fled,

Then in heaven with joy to greet thee,
Where no farewell tear is shed.

520

692.

L. M.

C. SPRAGUE.

For the Blessing of Schools.

1 0 THOU, at whose dread name we bend,
To whom our purest vows we pay,
God over all, in love descend,
And bless the labors of this day.

2 Our fathers here, a pilgrim band,
Fixed the proud empire of the free
Art moved in gladness o'er the land,
And Faith her altars reared to thee.

3 Here, too, to guard, through every age,
The sacred rights their valor won,
They bade instruction spread her page,
And send down truth from sire to son.

4 Here still, through all succeeding time, Their stores may truth and learning bring, And still the anthem-note sublime

To thee from children's children ring.

693.

L. M.

J. Q. ADAMS.

Death of Children.

1 SURE, to the mansions of the blest
When infant innocence ascends,
Some angel, brighter than the rest,
The spotless spirit's flight attends.

2 On wings of ecstasy they rise,
Beyond where worlds material roll,
Till some fair sister of the skies
Receives the unpolluted soul.

3 There, at th' Almighty Father's hand, Nearest the throne of living light, The choirs of infant seraphs stand,

And dazzling shine, where all are bright.

4 For when the Lord of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death,
Which speeds an infant to the tomb;

5 No passion fierce, no low desire,
Has quenched the radiance of the flame;
Back to its God the living fire
Returns, unsullied, as it came.

694. 8 & 7s. M.

Death of a Pupil.

WATERSTON.

1 ONE Sweet flower has drooped and faded, One sweet infant voice has fled,

One fair brow the grave has shaded,

One dear school-mate now is dead.

2 But we feel no thought of sadness,
For our friend is happy now;
She has knelt in soul-felt gladness,
Where the blessed angels bow.

3 She has gone to heaven before us,

But she turns and waves her hand,
Pointing to the glories o'er us,
In that happy spirit-land.

4 May our footsteps never falter
In the path that she has trod;
May we worship at the altar
Of the great and living God.

5 Lord, may angels watch above us,
Keep us all from error free-

May they guard, and guide, and love us,
Till, like her, we go to thee.

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1 CALM on the bosom of thy God,
Young spirit, rest thee now!
E'en while with us thy footstep trod,
His seal was on thy brow.

2 Dust to its narrow house beneath!
Soul to its place on high!

They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.

3 Lone are the paths, and sad the hours,
Since thy meek spirit's gone;
But, O, a brighter home than ours,
In heaven, is now thine own!

696. L. M. 61. H. WARE, JK.
The God of our Fathers.

1 LIKE Israel's hosts to exile driven,
Across the flood the pilgrims fled;
Their hands bore up the ark of Heaven,
And Heaven their trusting footsteps led,
Till on these savage shores they trod,
And won the wilderness for God.

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