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“What now seem random strokes, will there
“ Thou’rt right," quoth Dick: “no
more I'll grumble That this world is so strange a jumble ; My impious doubts are put to flight, For my own carpet sets me right.”
MRS. H. MORE.
“ WE DIE ALONE."
MAN, a gregarious creature, loves to fly
Early in life, when we can laugh aloud, There's something pleasant in a social crowd, Who laugh with us – but will such joy remain, When we lie struggling on the bed of pain ? When our physician tells us, with a sigh, No more on hope and science to rely, Life's staff is useless then ; with labouring breath We
pray for hope divine the staff of death;
This is a scene which few companions grace,
Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run, Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to shun ; But though to this our weakness may be prone, Let's learn to live, for we must die, alone. 1
FLOWERS FOR THE BEE.
COME, honey-bee, with thy busy hum,
There is spread for thee
And a thousand flowers
Within our bowers
Come, honey-bee, to our woodlands come,
"We die alone. If we have not lived in solitary communion with God, we shall start at finding ourselves in the solemn silence of death, about to launch forward where no friends, no ordinances, can accompany us. Rev. H. Martyn.
And flowers less fair
That scent not the air
And thou winrest spoil
By thy daily toil,
We may learn from the bee the wise man's lore,
Then homeward he speeds
O'er the fragrant meads,
Let our thanks too arise
For our daily supplies, As homeward and heavenward we haste on our way.
THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
And the muffled drum rolld on the air,
1 Proverbs, x. 4.
That soldier had stood in the battle-plain,
The bugles ceas’d their wailing sound
and they left the dead!
THE FIELD OF THE WORLD.
MARK, IV. 14.
Sow in the morn thy seed,
At eve hold not thine hand;
Broad-cast it o'er the land.
Beside all waters sow,
The highway furrows stock,
Scatter it on the rock.
The good, the fruitful ground,
Expect not here nor there :
Go forth, then, everywhere.
Thou know'st not which may thrive,
The late or early sown;
When and wherever strown.
And duly shall appear,
In verdure, beauty, strength;
And the full corn at length.
Thou canst not toil in vain;
Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
For garner in the sky.
Thence, when the glorious end,
The day of God is come,
“ Harvest home!”
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.
FAREWELL, sweet babe! whilst we thy loss deplore,
Thy spirit, freed from its terrestrial load, Shall join its kindred cherubs in the choir
Who sing unceasing round the throne of God.