THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, O quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying-
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper: angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul! can this be death?

The world recedes-it disappears;
Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount, I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

ALEXANDER POPE.

THE VALEDICTION.

VAIN world, what is in thee? What do poor mortals see Which should esteemed be

Worthy their pleasure?

Is it the mother's womb,
Or sorrows which soon come,
Or a dark grave and tomb;

Which is their treasure? How dost thou man deceive

By thy vain glory? Why do they still believe

Thy false history?

Is it children's book and rod,
The laborer's heavy load,
Poverty undertrod,

The world desireth?
Is it distracting cares,
Or heart-tormenting fears,
Or pining grief and tears,

Which man requireth?

Or is it youthful rage,

Or childish toying? Or is decrepit age

Worth man's enjoying?

Is it deceitful wealth,
Got by care, fraud, or stealth,
Or short, uncertain health,

Which thus befool men?
Or do the serpent's lies,
By the world's flatteries
And tempting vanities,

Still overrule them?
Or do they in a dream

Sleep out their season? Or borne down by lust's stream, Which conquers reason?

The silly lambs to-day
Pleasantly skip and play,
Whom butchers mean to slay,
Perhaps to-morrow;

In a more brutish sort
Do careless sinners sport,
Or in dead sleep still snort,
As near to sorrow;

Till life, not well begun,

Be sadly ended,
And the web they have spun
Can ne'er be mended.

What is the time that 's gone,
And what is that to come?
Is it not now as none?

The present stays not.
Time posteth, O how fast!
Unwelcome death makes haste;
None can call back what's past-
Judgment delays not;

Though God bring in the light,
Sinners awake not-
Because hell's out of sight,

They sin forsake not.

Man walks in a vain show;
They know, yet will not know;
Sit still when they should go-
But run for shadows,
While they might taste and know
The living streams that flow,
And crop the flowers that grow,

In Christ's sweet meadows.

Life's better slept away

Than as they use it;

In sin and drunken play Vain men abuse it.

Malignant world, adieu!

Where no foul vice is new-
Only to Satan true,

God still offended;

Though taught and warned by God,
And His chastising rod,

Keeps still the way that's broad,
Never amended.

Baptismal vows some make,

But ne'er perform them; If angels from heaven spake, 'Twould not reform them.

They dig for hell beneath,
They labor hard for death,
Run themselves out of breath
To overtake it.
Hell is not had for naught,
Damnation 's dearly bought,
And with great labor sought-

They'll not forsake it.
Their souls are Satan's fee-

He'll not abate it. Grace is refused that 's free

Mad sinners hate it.

Vile man is so perverse,
It's too rough work for verse
His badness to rehearse,

And show his folly;
He'll die at any rates-

He God and conscience hates,
Yet sin he consecrates,

And calls it holy.
The grace he 'll not endure
Which would renew him-
Constant to all, and sure,

Which will undo him.

His head comes first at birth,
And takes root in the earth-
As nature shooteth forth,

His feet grow highest,
To kick at all above,
And spurn at saving love;
His God is in his grove,

Because it's nighest;

He loves this world of strife,

Hates that would mend it; Loves death that 's called life, Fears what would end it.

All that is good he'd crush,
Blindly on sin doth rush-
A pricking thorny bush,

Such Christ was crowned with;
Their worship's like to this-
The reed, the Judas kiss:
Such the religion is

That these abound with;
They mock Christ with the knee
Whene'er they bow it-
As if God did not see

The heart, and know it.

Of good they choose the least,
Despise that which is best-
The joyful, heavenly feast

Which Christ would give them;
Heaven hath scarce one cold wish;
They live unto the flesh;
Like swine they feed on wash--

Satan doth drive them. Like weeds, they grow in mire Which vices nourishWhere, warmed by Satan's fire,

All sins do flourish.

Is this the world men choose,
For which they heaven refuse,
And Christ and grace abuse,
And not receive it?
Shall I not guilty be

Of this in some degree,
If hence God would me free,
And I'd not leave it?
My soul, from Sodom fly,

Lest wrath there find thee; Thy refuge-rest is nigh

Look not behind thee! There's none of this ado, None of the hellish crew; God's promise is most true

Boldly believe it.

My friends are gone before,
And I am near the shore;
My soul stands at the door-
O Lord, receive it!