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On the Death of Mr. William Galbraith,
All that's bright must fade
The fairest still the fleetest.
Farewell to thee, William ; farewell to thy smile, And thy bright-beaming eye, full of gladness the
while ; Thy beauties are faded-departed thy bloom ; Thou wert early predestined to enter the tomb.
We boast not thy virtues; the sad glistening eyeThe tender heart-bursting proclaimed in each sigh, These, these are the eulogies grav'n on the heart, Far deeper than marble ;—they ne'er can depart.
And sure if the spirits of mortals made blest
We weep not thy lot, for we know thou art gone To the mansions prepared since the world begun; We know that the crown shall encircle thy brow, And 'twere useless, lov'd angel, to weep for thee now.
Yet oft when the sun gilds with glory the West, And we point to that sky as the home of thy rest, We shall feel that on this earth we meet not again, And one bright drop of sorrow shall fall for thec
Through mighty Nature's handy works,
The common or the uncommon,
Can be compared to woman.-Old Song.
The warrior is called to the red field of fight,
And the trumpet hath warn’d him away ; Nor kindred nor parents can slacken his might,
He eagerly pants for the fray.
But there is a check to his fiery zeal,
And he trembles to think on the morrow; One gentle sigh and one tender appeal
Hath doomed his stout heart to its sorrow.
The seaman nor dreams of the perilous main,
Nor thinks of the dangers around him ; One thought hath awakened his only pain
One spell that to earth hath bound him.
The warrior thinks of the lily hand
That spread the scarf upon him ;
For the angel smile that won him.
“And the prayer of Faith shall save the sick; and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.-JAMES, 5c. 15v.
Oh God of love, and life, and truth!
Against whose maxims I have striven, Can all the crimes of misspent youth
And early manhood be forgiven? Canst thou accept of one like me,
Á sinner who has scorned' thy ways, And spent, with scarce a thought of thee,
In Satan's service life's best days ?
Oh yes; thy Holy Word declares
Salvation to the rebel still, Escaped from guilt's defiling snares,
Subdued in passion, mind, and will. Even though my sins a crimson stream,
Roll'd through life's years to manhood's tide, Still, still for me the Saviour came,
For me he suffered, bled, and died.
Where, unbelief, is now thy power
To soothe the heart, to calm despair ?
Of respite to corroding care ?
Its hopes upon some stronger chain,
While lingering on the fearful brink
Of endless joy or endless pain.
Where are the Social maxims now,
That promised such internal ease ? They will not cure my aching brow,
Nor conscience with its pangs appease. The world, if grasped within my hand,
In all its untouched stores of wealth, Would now be powerless to command
An hour of fresh, though fleeting health.
At such a time what stay have we, On which to rest our hopes and fears ?
Before us yawns Eternity,
We have the promise Jesus gave,
That strips its terror from the grave,"I will not cast the contrite out !”
Almighty Father! God of Peace !
On thee with earnest voice I call; My sins from thy great book erase,
Save the repentant prodigal ! Then may I too with joy exclaim
“Thro' Death's dark valley though I stray, I still shall call upon thy name
Thy rod and staff shall be my stay."
A Printer's Song.
Sang at an Anniversary of the Manchester Typographical
The sun is set, and the moon is up,
And the stars are growing pale ;
The barley press'd
Yields blood the best
We'll set off at break
Of the bright sun's streak, 'Tis the merriest life to live.
Even kings might envy now our case,
As we rise at dawn of day,
Can mortal mount
To a clearer fount
Like etherial dew
Upon bells of blue,
Then here's to him of the bearded corn!
We love his smiling eye ;
From the goblet who could fly?