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II. TO MY OLD FRIEND, R. KING PEIRCE, Esq.,

ON THE DEATH OF HIS INFANT CHILD.

M

OURN not for him, whom in life's earliest hour

The hand of Death has beckoned to his

rest;

Mourn not for him; the unexpanded flower
Will ope its leaves mid bright fields of the blest.

Thy newborn child is sleeping in the grave

Ere Earth's rough hand could coarsely brush away
The bloom of innocence its Maker gave,
The lovely tints of Eden's too brief day.

It was not his to hoist the dangerous sail,
Or ply the toiling oar on life's rough main ;
With shoals beneath-around, th' opposing gale ;
Above, the sunstroke and the drenching rain.

Grief had not time its iron lines to trace,

Or mortal care to vex his tender soul;
Pain did but gently breathe upon his face,

And the young spirit burst from earth's control.

All minds require the discipline of grief,
However strong the native root may be ;
The fruit is lasting, while the stroke is brief,
And after years behold a stronger tree.

'Tis not within the scope of mortal brain God's varied dealings to explain aright,

His methods with His children oft are plain, Although earth's government be veiled in night.

The overhanging canopy of ill

Will pass and leave no blighting trace behind,
Joy's sun illuminates th' adjacent hill,

And clouds will yield before Time's cleaving wind.

The scalding tears will rise, the thoughts will burn,
Or man will strive to hide himself from woe;
But 'tis the part of Wisdom to discern

That the great Chast'ner deals no needless blow.

Although Bereavement is a deep, dark well,
And faint the gleams that pierce its gloomy cave,
Yet Love's clear planet there is seen to dwell,
Brightly embosomed in the inky wave.

ADVENT HYMN, No. 1.

REAT God, who know'st, and none beside,
If at yon sun's bright Easter-tide
Unnumbered springs shall bloom;

Or if yon pall of vapours dense,

That shroud his dim magnificence,

Adorn him for the tomb.

Make each one's earthly burthened ear
At any hour rejoice to hear

Th' Archangel's thrilling warning;
Prepare each wand'ring world-filled eye

To gladly hail across the sky

That unsunlighted dawning.

Anon we seem to feel Thee nigh,
And Hope rekindling in the eye

Steadies the onward gaze;

Anon, as eagerly we strain,

Those joyous Advent visions wane

In Unbelief's dull haze.

Let us then ofttimes scale the height

Of Revelation, where the sight

Of Truth will be most clear;

On that high mount Saint John of old

Was granted gazing to behold

Scenes of the far-off sphere.

Lord, give me strength to do thy will, Though many be the years of ill Unwearied as the sun;

That when in death I soar to Thee,

Or Thou in glory come to me,

Thy work may be well done!

LI

ADVENT HYMN, No. 2.

ROW long, O Lord of love, how long
Shall Sorrow, Suffering, and Wrong
Prostrate creation scourge ?

How oft shall the bright line of light

We deemed would make the next hour bright

In deeper darkness merge?

How oft shall this life's song outburst

So hopefully and bright at first,

So full of merry glee

Change as it carols on its way

To far more sad and halting lay,

And end in minor key?

How long shall mounted Cruelty
O'er the fair cornfields rising high
Of human progress ride?

While the insatiate sea of Death
Engulfs all living things beneath
Its never-ebbing tide?

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