Glory to God above!

The waters soon will cease:

For, lo! the swift returning dove
Brings home the sign of peace.

Though storms His face obscure,
And dangers threaten loud,
Jehovah's covenant is sure,
His bow is in the cloud!

THE SOUL'S IMMORTAL ORIGIN.

THERE is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
And while the mouldering ashes sleep
Low in the ground,

The soul, of origin divine,

God's glorious image, freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine A star of day.

The Sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;

The Soul, immortal as its Sire,

Shall never die.

11*

FOREVER WITH THE LORD.

"FOREVER with the Lord!” Amen. So let it be !

Life for the dead is in that word,

'Tis immortality. Here in the body pent,

Absent from Him I roam;

Yet nightly pitch my moving tent
A day's march nearer home.

My Father's house on high!
Home of my soul! how near,
At times, to Faith's aspiring eye,
Thy golden gates appear!
Ah, then my spirit faints,
To reach the land I love;
The bright inheritance of saints,
Jerusalem above.

Yet doubts still intervene,

And all my comfort flies; Like Noah's dove, I flit between Rough seas and stormy skies. Anon the clouds depart,

The winds and waters cease;

While sweetly o'er my gladdened heart, Expands the bow of peace.

"Forever with the Lord!"

Father, if 'tis Thy will,

The promise of Thy gracious word,

E'en here to me fulfil.

Be Thou at my right hand,

So shall I never fail ;

Uphold me, and I needs must stand; Fight, and I must prevail.

So, when my latest breath
Shall rend the vail in twain,
By death I shall escape from death,
And life eternal gain.
Knowing" as I am known,"

How shall I love that word, And oft repeat before the throne, "Forever with the Lord!

Robert Southey.

1774-1843.

THE DEAD FRIEND.

Nor to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear!

The spirit is not there

Which kindled that dead eye,

Which throbbed in that cold heart,

Which in that motionless hand
Hath met thy friendly grasp.
The spirit is not there!
It is but lifeless, perishable flesh
That moulders in the grave;

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles,
Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Follow thy friend beloved;

The spirit is not there!

Often together have we talked of death;
How sweet it were to see

All doubtful things made clear!
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the cherubim

To view the depth of heaven!
O, Edmund! thou hast first
Begun the travel of eternity!

I look upon the stars,

And think that thou art there,

Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were,
With unseen ministry of angel power,
To watch the friends we loved.
Edmund! we did not err !

Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given
A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstained and
Edmund! we did not err !

Our best affections here

They are not like the toys of infancy;
The soul outgrows them not;

We do not cast them off;

O, if it could be so,

It were, indeed, a dreadful thing to die!

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,

Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour,

pure.