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,
Beneath its golden hair.

I see the old man in his grave,

With thin locks silvery grey;

I see the child's bright tresses wave
In the cold breath of clay.

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,
Its beauty in our hearts.

At holy midnight, voices sweet
Like fragrance fill the room,
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet
Come bright'ning from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came!

We veil our eyes before the light,
We bless our Saviour's name!

This frame of dust, this feeble breath,
The plague may soon destroy:

We think on Thee, and feel in death
A deep and awful joy.

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 thou all its beauties and glories behold,
The Saviour an entrance has purchased for thee,

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.