Oh, ye who would go to that glorious place,
And behold in his glory, the Lamb face to face,
And serve him for ever above;
Seek now to prepare for that fair happy land,
That at last you may join the innumerable band.
Who dwell in those regions of love.
asert bes as well 311019 ane.bus existA LAY OF AUTUMNurtenq ati dt.W I am come to end the sweet summer's reign, buA To vary the aspect of hill and plain, als rxist f To make nature lay her green vesture down, oran!! And assume the hues autumn calls her owns bra The ripened fruits are ready to fall,dic sus tevwa „¿G To her banquet, autumn invites ye all:qen eất baÀ And while ye partake, oh! children of earth, MT Give thanks to that God who has sent me forth. obne pozing ored W
I shall deck with scarlet the sycamore,
Tinge with yellow the robe the ash tree
A sombre mantle throw over the oak, en hairs
And change each scene as with magic stroke. N
I shall leave a trace on the verdant grass,
That will witness where'er my footsteps pass;
When they see me, the bee and the butterfly,'
Shall seek for their winter retreats, or die.
But the pine, and the holly, and sable yew
The fir with its cones of red and of blueto
The funeral cypress, the cedar tall
And ivy that mantles the ruin'd wall→→→→
Making ev'ry time-worn crevice a stay,
Seeming to revel 'mid scenes of decay-
The laurel that conquerors love to wear,
And the lauristinus, my hand shall spare.
But winter is coming, and I must away,
And yield up fair earth to his absolute sway:
Already the trees feel his icy breath,
And their golden honours lay strewn beneath.
When I come again, a change I shall find,
Some voice will be hush'd that I left behind;
Some tresses fair that now wave with my breath,
Lie motionless o'er the cold brow of death.
Labour then mortal! while yet it is day,
Before the night fall, when no longer you may:
For a mansion seek in that better land
Where arrayed in white all the ransom’d stand.
Be ready, with loins girt about, for that hour
When man's last foe shall assert his power,
So whether by day, or by night, he come
Death shall be to you but a going home.
WHY dost thou spend thy swiftly-fleeting days,
In vain pursuit of foolish, empty praise ?
Mere human honor is a worthless thing,
Which shouldst thou chance to gain, can never bring
Enduring peace, but after transient stay,
Will plume its silken wing and fly away.
What, if with all thy care, the voice of fame
Should spread o'er distant lands thine honor'd name,
Can this compose thy weary soul to rest,
Withdraw the thorn of anguish from thy breast,
Or still the storm of trouble in thy soul,
When sorrow's deepening waves around it roll?
Can this procure one drop of balm, to heal
Those aching pains my wounded spirits feel?
Can this afford accusing conscience rest?
Restore lost peace to souls by guilt opprest?
Or soothe the pillow of thine aching head,
By opening heaven around thy dying bed?
No; human honor is a worthless thing,
In life, it brings no peace-in death, a sting.
Thou canst not please thy soul with earthly toys,
The soul, immortal, outlives all those joys!
Then, turn thy feet to walk by Wisdom's word,
And gain through faith the favor of thy Lord.
Or with a miser's wish for more
Ever pant; Toy C
But that I would impart
Peace to each aching heart,
Which feels the bitter smart tab 100%
Of pale want; on to theng, ipv al
That I the joy might taste
Of spreading forth the feast,
With the hungry for my guest, à 16
BRING BACK MY FLOWERS.
"Bring back my Flowers!" said a rosy child,
As she played by the streamlet's side,
And cast down wreaths of the flowerets wild
On the ever hurrying tide.
But the stream flowed on, and her treasures bore
To the far off sparkling sea,
To return to the place of their birth no more,
Though she cried, "Come back to me,
Ye fairest gems of these forests bowers;
Oh, stream! bright stream! bring back my
"Bring back my Flowers!" said a noble youth, As he mournfully stood alone,
And sadly thought on the broken truth
Of a heart that was once his own,
Of a light that shone on his life's young day,
As brilliant as man e'er knew,—
Of a love that his reason had led astray,
And to him was no longer true.
"Return," he cried, "life's brightest hours;-
Oh, stream of Time! bring back my flowers."
"Bring back my Flowers!" a mother sighed
O'er the grave where her infant slept;
And where in her stubbornness and pride,
She her tearful vigils kept.
"Oh, why does the cruel hand of Death
Seek victims so fair as she?
Oh, why are the loved ones of others left,
While mine is thus snatched from me?
Who gave to thee, Death, such cruel powers?
Oh, grave, dark grave! bring back my flowers.”
"Bring back my Flowers!" said a grey-haired man, For the friends of his youth were fled;
And those he had loved and cherished most
Were slumbering with the dead.
But a faith in his God still cheered him on,
Though the present was dark and drear;
For in heaven he knew he should meet again
The friends upon earth so dear.
"Come, Death" he cried, "for in Eden's bowers
Our God will restore our long-lost flowers."
Anna, the Elder Sister 25, 69, 122, 163, 209, 265, 316,
Biography, Preceptive...... 13, 128, 199, 307, 415, 512
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