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"Where have ye laid him?" "Come," they say,

Pointing to where the loved one slept ;
Weeping, the sister led the way,-
And, seeing Mary, "Jesus wept."

He weeps with thee, with all that mourn,
And He shall wipe thy streaming eyes
Who knew all sorrows, woman-born,

Trust in his word; thy dead shall rise!

April 15, 1860.

Ꮇ Ꭺ Ꭱ Ꭲ Ꮋ Ꭺ .

DIED JANUARY 7, 1861.

SEXTON! Martha's dead and gone;

Her

Toll the bell! tọll the bell!

weary hands their labor cease;

Good night, poor Martha, sleep in peace!

Toll the bell!

Sexton! Martha 's dead and gone;

For

Toll the bell! toll the bell!

many a year has Martha said,

"I'm old and poor, would I were dead!"

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Toll the bell!

Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;

Toll the bell! toll the bell!

She'll bring no more, by day or night,

Her basket full of linen white.

Toll the bell!

Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;

Toll the bell! toll the bell!

'Tis fitting she should lie below

A pure white sheet of drifted snow.
Toll the bell!

Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!

Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light,

Where all the robes are stainless white. Toll the bell!

SUN AND SHADOW.

As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of

green,

To the billows of foam-crested blue, Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen, Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue: Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray

As the chaff in the stroke of the flail; Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her The sun gleaming bright on her sail.

Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,
Of breakers that whiten and roar;
How little he cares, if in shadow or sun

They see him who gaze from the shore!

way,

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He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef, To the rock that is under his lee,

As he drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf,

O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea.

Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted caves

Where life and its ventures are laid,

The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves May see us in sunshine or shade;

Yet true to our course, though our shadow grow dark,
We'll trim our broad sail as before,

And stand by the rudder that governs the bark,
Nor ask how we look from the shore!

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