There, Lord, thy wayworn saints shall find
The bliss for which they longed before;
And holiest sympathies shall bind
Thine own to thee forevermore.
O Jesus, bring us to that rest,
Where all the ransomed shall be found,
In thine eternal fulness blest,
While ages roll their cycles round.
WILLIAM LEGGETT.
* * * * *
MY DAYS AMONG THE DEAD.
My days among the dead are passed;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedewed
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the dead; with them
I live in long-past years;
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the dead; anon
My place with them will be.
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity:
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
* * * * *
THE FUTURE LIFE.
How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
The disembodied spirits of the dead,
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
And perishes among the dust we tread?
For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.
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