Yet, tho' a sign of love so true,

Crest of the mediatorial throne, It must not claim the honour due

To Christ alone.

To Him my willing vows I pay,
While here I tread the path he trod,

His cross, my solace by the way,

But not my God!

THE WHOLE PRINTED BY MESSRS. VIZETELLY AND BRANSTON.

THE SOLACE OF SONG.

PERE LA CHAISE.

ALL HIS DAYS ARE SORROW, AND HIS TRAVAIL GRIEF: YEA, HIS HEART TAKETH NOT REST IN THE NIGHT.-ECCL. 11. 23.

Go from the living to the dead,
Where thronging generations spread
Their couch beneath the sky;
Tho' all around is hushed and still,
There is a voice upon the hill,

That warns the night is nigh!

Dark in their shadow, wet with dew,
The cypress, and the branching yew,
Becloud the marble tomb;

Sorrow and Suffering here abide,
And tearful sit the grave beside,
Clothed in a ceaseless gloom.

B

Garlands of Honour grace the bust,
That crowns some hero's scatter'd dust,
And high his banners wave-

Yet what these trophies of his fame?
He lived he fought--he won a name—
He lies within the grave!

Here hands have trained a fragrant bower,
And culled the brightest, choicest flower,
Now withered in its pride,

To tell of Beauty's rise and close;
How bloom'd she, as the opening rose;
How, as the rose, she died.

The classic column of the Sage
Points yet again another page
Of Death's terrific scroll;

Warns-how Man's restless mind hath wrought

All things to know, yet never sought

The science of the soul.

Each record of the mouldering dead
Of glory tells-but glory fled

On wings of vanished years

No cheering radiance gilds the gloom-
But louring vapours o'er each tomb

Shed unavailing tears.

Then what yon living City's hope,
When, having coursed its present scope,
It must for Death prepare?

To gain-when sounds the knell of Time-
Slow trailing up the steep its slime,
This den of its despair!

Was it for this the morning-light
Shot up the ebon brow of night,
And streaked the mountains dun,
Bidding frail men arouse and wake,
The spell of deadly slumber break,
And hail the risen Sun?

They start-a moment ope the eye,
List to the breeze that rustles by,
And feel the heav'n-born breath;
Then turn them to their sleep again,
The golden gleams of morn disdain -
They love the shades of death!

Enough for them the torch-light glow,
Which Reason casts on things below,
On meteor-joys of Sense:

They boast to live while life remains,1

And dream, O fools! in death's deep chains,

Ages of rest commence !

1 Isaiah xxii. 13.