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THROUGH sorrow's night, and danger's path,

Amid the deepening gloom, We, soldiers of an injured King,

Are marching to the tomb.

There, when the turmoil is no more,

And all our powers decay, Our cold remains in solitude

Shall sleep the years away.

Our labors done, securely laid

In this our last retreat, Unheeded, o'er our silent dust

The storms of life shall beat.

Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,

The vital spark shall lie,
For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise

To see its kindred sky.

These ashes too, this little dust,

Our Father's care shall keep, Till the last angel rise, and break

The long and dreary sleep.

Then love's soft.dew o’er every eye

Shall shed its mildest rays,
And the long silent dust shall burst

With shouts of endless praise.



Much in sorrow, oft in woe,
Onward, Christians, onward go,
Fight the fight, and worn with strife,
Steep with tears the bread of life.

Onward, Christians, onward go,
Join the war, and face the foe;
Faint not! much doth yet remain,
Dreary is the long campaign.

Shrink not, Christians; will ye yield ? Will ye quit the painful field?

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CHRISTIANS! brethren! ere we part,
Join every voice and every heart;
One solemn hymn to God we raise,
One final song of grateful praise.

Christians! we here may meet no more,
But there is yet a happier shore;
And there, released from toil and pain,
Brethren, we shall meet again.

Now to God, the Three in One,
Be eternal glory done;
Raise, ye saints, the sound again:
Ye nations, join the loud Amen.




Poor little one! most bitterly did pain,
And life's worst ills, assail thine early age;
And, quickly tired with this rough pilgrimage,
Thy wearied spirit did its heaven regain.
Moaning, and sickly, on the lap of life
Thou laid'st thine aching head, and thou didst sigh
A little while, ere to its kindred sky
Thy soul return'd, to taste no more of strife!
Thy lot was happy, little sojourner!
Thou hadst no mother to direct thy ways;
And fortune frown's most darkly on thy days,
Short as they were. Now, far from the low stir
Of this dim spot, in heaven thou dost repose,
And look'st and smilest on this world's transient

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Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly, asked,

If he did not feel for him ?

Do I not feel?The doubt is keen as steel.
Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;
My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is


heart. On this I act—whatever pangs surround, 'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound ! When all was new, and life was in its spring, I lived an unloved solitary thing; Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day, The piercing cares that wore my youth away: Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel; Even then I wept I had not power to heal : Even then, deep-sounding through the mighty

gloom, I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn’d the wretched's doom,

[fireWho were my friends in youth?- The midnight The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir; To these I 'plained, or turn'd from outer sight, To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;


I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of wo I never ope,
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show,
Though the cold crowd the secret never know;
With them I laugh-yet, when no eye can see,
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.
Yes, thou didst wrong me, ***; I fondly thought
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought !
I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;
I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears :
We then shall feel that friendship has a power
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.


H. K. WHITE. Half past Eleven o'Clock at Night.


I and a

Yet once more, and once more, awake my Harp,
From silence and neglect-one lofty strain,
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,
And seeking mysteries more than words can tell,


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