To lay that darling form,

So lovely e'en in death, Food for corruption's worm,

The mouldering earth beneath! Oh, worse to me than twice to part, Than second death-stroke to my heart.

As summer-flower she grew,

Expanding to the morn,

All gemm'd with sparkling dew,
A flower without a thorn,

A mother's sweet and lovely flower,
Sweeter and lovelier every hour.

But, ah, my morning bloom
Scarce felt the warming ray ;

An unexpected gloom

Obscured the rising day;

A dreary, cold, and withering blast Low on the ground its beauties cast.

Its glistening leaves are shed,

That spread so fresh and fair;

The balmy fragrance fled,

That scented all the air;
And lowly laid its lifeless form,
The gentle victim of the storm!

But why in anguish weep!

Hope beams upon my view; 'Tis but a winter's sleep—

My flowers shall spring anew,

Each darling flower in earth that sleeps, O'er which fond memory hangs and weeps ;

All to new life shall rise,

In heavenly beauty bright,
Shall charm my ravish'd eyes,
In tints of rainbow light;
Shall bloom unfading in the skies,
And drink the dews of paradise.

Oh! this is blest relief

My fainting heart it cheers;

It cools my burning grief,

And sweetens all my tears,
Those eyes shall see my darling then,
Nor shed a parting tear agen.

And while my bleeding heart

Laments for comforts gone,

I only mourn apart,

I am not left alone :

Though nightsome buds of opening joy,
How many still my thanks employ,

And thou! my second heart,
Loved partner of my grief,
Heaven bids not thee depart,
Of earthly joys the chief;
A favoured wife and mother still,
Let grateful praise my bosom fill.

STANZAS.

By the Reb. William Scott Moncrieff.

"I heard a voice from heaven, as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of a great thunder; and I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps."-REV. xiv. 2.

HARK! hark¡ 'Tis heaven's choir,
Sweeter far than mortal lyre,
Pealing, thrilling, soothing, blending,
Up to heaven's top vault ascending;
Now in deepest thunder rolling,
High the Almighty's power extolling;
And now, in softest sweetness swelling,
Of divinest mercy telling.

Steep, my soul, thy sense in slumbers, And wake but to these mystic numbers. Higher than creation's height,

Deeper than chaotic night,

Far into oblivion's gloom,

Of all that is, or was, the tomb;
Spread these deep, loud notes, afar,
Announcing heaven's impending war.

Quick, at the voice of that live thunder,
Earth and hell are rent asunder:
Hark! it rolls, still louder pealing,
Every secret thing revealing.

Death, and Sin, are fast descending,
All their tyrannies are ending;
Darkness startles on her throne,
For her ancient sway is gone.

The silent solitary earth

Now labours with portentous birth; The mighty deep, in madness, roars, And his long treasured dead restores : Heaven's thunder darkens, deepens on, But cannot drown the deeper moan Bursting from millions, who behold Their doom at length, so oft foretold.

DEATH-BED.

By Mr. William Thomson, Glasgow.

STRANGE was thy feeling, and as sad as new,
When first the fact was forced upon thy view,
That men could listen to the words of grace,
And own them true, with brute unconscious gaze,
And hear unmoved alike the sinner's fate,
And all the glories of the heavenly state.

Thou camest, full of zeal and fervid hope,
With others' foolishness and sins to cope,

Assured that the same love which vanquish'd thine
Would soon each heart to thy loved Lord incline;
But soon thy lofty expectations fall,

When few appear arrested by thy call.
Though all attentively thy words receive,

But few are melted, almost none believe;
Thou then rememb'rest thou art weak and young,
While old is Adam, and in age is strong.

When busy buoyant health the truth delayed, And secret fond excuses idly made,

Thou turnedst hopeful to the couch of death, Where life hung quiv'ring on the lab'ring breath.