And let the prince of Hell God's word, for all their craft and force, But, spite of Hell, fhall have its course: And though they take our life, The City of God remaineth. Martin Luther. 1483-1501. BURIED TOGETHER. TO COLONEL ROBERT G. SHAW. FAIR-HAIRED Northern hero, With thy guard of dusky hue, Up from the field of battle Rise to the last review! Sweep downwards, holy angels, The Mafter, who remembers And thou, young, generous spirit, G In full activity of zeal and power; O to the grave in all thy glorious prime, A Christian cannot die before his time; The Lord's appointment is the servant's hour. Go to the grave; at noon from labor cease; Reft on thy fheaves; thy harvest-task is done; Come from the heat of battle, and in peace, Soldier, go home; with thee the fight is won. Go to the grave; for there thy Saviour lay Go to the grave; - no; take thy seat above; Be thy pure spirit present with the Lord, Where thou for faith and hope haft perfect love, And open vifion for the written word. 7. Montgomery. 1803-1853. HOLY Father, just and true Are all thy works and words and ways, And unto thee alone are due Thanksgiving and eternal praise! As children of thy gracious care, We veil the eye, we bend the knee, With broken words of praise and prayer, Father and God, we come to thee. For thou hast heard, O God of right, Not fhortened that it could not save. The laborer fits beneath his vine, The fhackled soul and hand are free; Speed on thy work, Lord God of hofts! J. G. Whittier. PREPARE YE THE WAY OF THE LORD. A VOICE from the desert comes awful and fhrill; The Lord is advancing; prepare ye the way! The word of his promise he comes to fulfil, And o'er the dark world pour the splendor of day. Bring down the proud mountain, though towering to heaven, And be the low valley exalted on high; The rough path and crooked be made smooth and even, He cometh! our King, our Redeemer is nigh. The beams of salvation his progress illume, 1585-1649. Ο PPRESSION fhall not always reign; When freedom, burft from every chain, What voice shall bid the progress stay Of truth's victorious car? What arm arreft the growing day, Or quench the solar ftar? What reckless soul, though ftout and strong, And freedom's morning bar? The hour of triumph comes apace, |