69.

Wouldst thou be purged from pollution, "the blood of Christ cleanseth from all sin."

70.

"The soldier tir'd of war's alarms"
May find repose in Glory's arms;
And he whose feet have swiftest run,
With rapture wear the crown he won.
But not so sweet the warrior's rest
As his who sleeps on Jesus' breast,
Emerging from severer woes,
Triumphant over fiercer foes:
And not such rapture can he know
Who feels upon his glowing brow
The envied crown, as his who gains

A crown of life, and with his Saviour reigns.

71.

Judge not thy hopes by what they now appear: What will their worth be when thou liest here?

72.

O, passing stranger, call this not
A place of fear and gloom:

I love to linger o'er the spot-
It is my baby's tomb!

Here morning sunbeams brightly glow;

And here the moonbeam shines; While all unconsciously below

My slumbering babe reclines.

His little waxen rosy face

I know will soon decay,

And every charm, and every grace,
Will moulder fast away.

But when the sun and moon shall fade,

My baby shall arise,

In brighter beams than theirs array'd,
And reign above the skies.

73.

The lowly tenant of this tomb
In sorrow pass'd the glare and gloom
That mark'd his little day:
Misled by Passion's stormy tide,
And keen desires, and wounded pride,
In thorny paths he wander'd wide
Through many a wildering way.

In life a thousand snares surprise;
Ten thousand evils round us rise,
And none are free from blame.
'Twas his, alas! in evil hour

To see the storm around him lower,

When every tongue was prompt to pour

Reproach upon his name.

Still let thy anger be repress'd:
For many a virtue warm'd his breast,
Though doom'd to sigh and groan.
Refuse not, Reader, then to shed
A tear upon his hapless head;
And, pondering o'er his dusty bed,
Prepare thee for thine own.

74.

Say, hast thou revolv'd, in reflection deep,
Where thy body shall lie in its long last sleep;
And chosen a spot where, unheeded and free,
The earth-worm thy sister and mother shall be?
Still whether entomb'd in the aisle alone
Thou shalt moulder beneath the cold grey stone;
Or whether, adorning the place of thy rest,
The turf and the floweret shall cover thy breast;
What avails it, alas! where the body may dwell,
When thy soul will be summon'd to heaven or hell?

75.

The grave is not a place for blame, and yet we

cannot raise

O'er every tenant of the tomb the tribute of our

praise:

Didst thou but know the mournful tale of her who

moulders here,

Then soft regret would mingle with thine unavailing tear.

76.

Be humble and think on the truth that the grave
Proclaims to the fool and the wise:-

Proud man is at best a poor handful of earth
Which the beggar may pass and despise.

77.

If, Reader, thou art repentant, hope and rejoice. "To the Lord our God belong mercies and forgivenesses, though we have rebelled against him." If thou art rebellious, fear and tremble, for verily our God is a consuming fire."

78.

He was suddenly summoned hence; but his lamp was trimmed, and his light burning.

79.

Wouldst thou be bless'd, plume thy aspiring wings,

And seek with all thy soul eternal things.

All worldly bliss is but an empty breath,
That fails in life and fades away in death.
Fortune may favour, Fancy may beguile,
Hope wave her golden wings and sweetly smile;
But sad Experience, with a brow o'ercast,
Sighing with grief, and pointing to the past,
Whispers, the fair illusion to destroy,

That "joy unmingled is not earthly joy."

80.

How soon shall Satan's realm of dark despair Be lit with hope? O never! never! never! How long shall sinners dwell in torment there? For ever! and for ever! and for ever!

81.

He looked on life as on a picture; found it excellent in design, and passing fair in execution, but painted with colours that faded fast away. The sky was clear, the foreground rich in its tints, the figures around him admirably grouped; but his quick eye discovered Death in the distance. Depressed by the discovery, and sighing for immortality, he laid down his pallet and pencil, and sought celestial scenes, whose prospects are not disfigured by Death, and whose brilliant colours will endure for ever.

82.

His record is on high.

83.

How gladly would the illustrious dead that lie Enshrin'd in pomp, and pride, and pageantry, Could they look back and mark with thoughtful

brow

The littleness of all things here below;—