Know they not the happy land

By the breeze of heaven fanned, Where the saint at God's right hand, Boundless blessings shall enjoy? Can they wonder,

When they see a Christian die?

Come they?-Yes-but 'tis to wait
"Till the good man meets his fate;"
Then to heaven's glorious gate
Bear his soul triumphantly,

Not to wonder,

That the saint should calmly die!

Why should fiends from hell below, In wonder to his death-bed go? They may envy-for they know, Heaven's eternal weight of joy. Would they wonder,

Tho' the saint should long to die?

Burning memory points to where,
Life's pure river sparkles there;

Trees, whose boughs luxuriant, bear

Fruits of immortality;

Can they wonder,

Should the Christian love to die?

They who once from heaven fell,

Down into the deepest hell;

Whose tortured tongues alone can tell

An angel's wo—an angel's joy:
Can they wonder,

Ransomed Christians long to die?

Christian, bought by priceless blood,

Welcome to the throne of God,

Tho' your head beneath the sod,
In corruption mouldering lie!
Happy Christian

'Tis your privilege to die!

Will the weary wanderer weep,
When his couch is spread for sleep?

Will the runner slack his speed,

When he sees the glittering meed? Will the warrior trembling fly, When the shout is-victory?

Child of earthly misery!

Heir of heaven's unwithering joy!

Oh! the wonder,

Should the Christian shun to die!

LINES

Upon the death of Miss ALICE COGSWELL, (a mute,) as expressive of that which the deceased would say, where she permitted to address her earthly friends.*

1.

SISTERS! there's music here;

From countless harps it flows,

Throughout this bright celestial sphere;
Nor pause nor discord knows.

The seal is melted from my ear,

By love divine;

And what through life I pined to hear,

Is mine!-Is mine!

* She survived her father, Mason F. Cogswell, M. D., one of the most distinguished physicians and surgeons of Connecticut, but a short time.

The warbling of an ever-tuneful choir,

And the full, deep response of David's golden lyre.

Did the kind earth hide from me

Her broken harmony,

That thus the melodies of heaven might roll,

And whelm in deeper tides of bliss, my wondering soul?

Joy! I am mute no more;

My sad and silent years

2

With all their painful toils are o'er;

Sweet sisters!-dry your tears;

Listen at hush of eve,-listen at rising day,

List at the hour of prayer,—can ye not hear my lay?

Untaught, uncheck'd it came,

As light from chaos beamed

Praising his glorious name,

Whose blood on Calvary stream'd;

And still it swells the highest strain, the song of the re

deemed.