miled on their tarriance here,
That a faithful guard in the dreamless land
Are the friends they have loved so dear.

They have gone to be seen of men no more;
But oft on a shadowy hill,
Or the crest of a wave where the moonbeams pour,
They are watching around you still.

And oft on a fleecy cloud they sail,
And oft on the hurrying blast,
When slumber her light and magic veil
O'er man and his woes has cast.

'Tis true, in the silent night you call,
And they answer you not again--
For the spirits of bliss are voiceless all;
Sound only was made for pain.

That their land is bright and they weep no more,
I have warbled from hill to hill,
But my plaintive strains should have told before,
They love, oh! they love you still.

They bid me say that unfading flowers
You'll find in the path they trod,
And a welcome true to their deathless bowers
Pronounced by the voice of God.

HEAVEN AND EARTH.

Turn from the grave, turn from the grave,
There's fearful mystery there;
Descend not to the shadowy tomb,
If thou wouldst shun despair.
It tells a tale of severed ties
To break the bleeding heart,
And from the "canopy of dust"
Would make it death to part.
Oh! lift the eye of faith to worlds
Where death shall never come,
And _there_ behold "the pure in heart"
Whom God has gathered home,
Beyond the changing things of time,
Beyond the reach of care.
How sweet to view the ransomed ones
In dazzling glory there!
They seem to whisper to the loved
Who smoothed their path below,
"Weep not for us, _our_ tears have all
Forever ceased to flow."
Take from the grave, take from the grave,
Those bright, but withering; flowers,
The spirit that had loved them once
Is now in fadeless bowers;
Undying is the fragrance there,
Eternal is the bloom;
But the next breeze may waft away
This perishing perfume.
One fearful stamp, "Doomed to decay,"
Marks all the joys of earth;
Oh! what a resting-place for souls
Of an immortal birth!
Then linger round the grave no more,
Lift, lift the eye to Heaven,
Till hues of faith shall gild the gloom,
And every sigh's forgiven.
Then, when the golden harvest's done,
The path of duty trod,
Thou with the loved may'st garnered be,
And gathered home to God.

1828.