MAGDALENE'S HYMN. HE air of death breathes through our souls, The dead all round us lie; By day and night the death-bell tolls, And says, "Prepare to die!" The face that in the morning sun We thought so wondrous fair, Hath faded ere his course was run, I see the old man in his grave, With thin locks silvery grey; I see the child's bright tresses wave 152 MAGDALENE'S HYMN. The loving ones we loved the best, Like music all are gone! And the wan moonlight bathes in rest Their monumental stone. But not when the death-prayer is said The life of life departs; The body in the grave is laid, At holy midnight, voices sweet We know who sends the visions bright, We veil our eyes before the light, This frame of dust, this feeble breath, We think on Thee, and feel in death MAGDALENE'S HYMN. Dim is the light of vanish'd years In glory yet to come; O idle grief! O foolish tears! When Jesus calls us home. Like children for some bauble fair That weep themselves to rest, We part with life-awake! and there The jewel in our breast! 153 PROFESSOR WILSON. ADDRESS TO A DYING FRIEND. HERE is light on the hills, and the valley is past! Ascend, happy pilgrim! thy labours are o'er ! The sunshine of heaven around thee is cast, And thy weak, doubting footsteps can falter no more. On, pilgrim-that hill richly circled with rays Is Zion! Lo, there is "the city of saints! And the beauties, the glories, that region displays, Inspiration's own language imperfectly paints. But the "gate of one pearl" to thee opened shall be, And thy dwelling henceforth is the city of gold. Will announce the glad angels, the sentinels there: Knock, pilgrim! not long thou for entrance canst wait, For spirits like thee to those angels are Transporting re-union! bright meed of all those Who on earth bowed in meekness and faith to the rod, Still thankful alike, if the thorn or the rose, Was strewed on the pathway that led them to God. |