But e'er on earth the mortal drama ends,
And the sweet bird of Paradise ascends.
Each latent grace more luminous appears;
Each rose of Eden richer beauty wears :
So blooms the violet before a blast,
And sweeter sings the dying swan at last.
Soft patience soothes his pains, and hopes arise
Within his breast, that flavour of the skies.
See on that pale emaciated face,
What looks of meekness, gratitude, and grace;
No murmur, all is placid and serene;
An angel sweetness in his smiles is seen.
Peace is not absent now, that fairest flower,
That sheds her fragrance on man's final hour :
She makes his easy couch at eve and morn,
On softest roses, freed from every thorn;
Save one short pang to end the mortal strife,
And gently cut the mystic knot of life.
Approach his bed, ye scoffers, and profane;
Is this the man ye branded as insane?

Go, Infidel, thy brother rakes acquaint!
Sin makes the fool, but piety the saint!
No fear, no doubt, the viper race is fled,

A beam of glory plays around his bed.
But does he feel a self-elating thought,

As he the work, the finished work had wrought ?
No, less than nothing in his own esteem,

The Cross his glory, and the Lamb his theme:
He deems the throne of bliss a sovereign gift,

And dreads as death and misery to lift
The crown divine, on any but his Lord,
Or speak of merit, 'tis a term abhor'd.
Humility, the lily-likened grace,

With smiles and tears adorn his dying face;
While brightly glows the fire of love within,
And burns the dross of every latent sin:
Glows in his breast, and glistens in his eye,
And like an Eagle emulates the sky:
Lifts him above this elemental strife,

And gives a foretaste of immortal life.

D 2

Thus standing on the awful verge of fate,
Betwixt a mortal and immortal state;
He looks serene across the deep abyss,
To streams of pleasure and to bowers of bliss :
Hears sounds melodious float along the air,
Sees angel bands the flaming car preparë;
“And all his prospects brighten to the last,
“ His heaven commences, and his woes are past."

GLORY IN REVERSION, OR THE SAINT'S PROSPECT OF HEAVEN.

This lifts their head, and sweetens every pain;
In time they suffer, but in bliss they reign!

THERE is a hope beyond the grave,
For all who know a Saviour's grace;
There is beyond life's stormy wave,
For toiling saints a resting place.

There is a crown of real joy,
For every warrior of the cross;
There is a treasure in the sky,
To reimburse the Christian's loss.

There is a river of delight,

Fast by the Lamb's cerulean throne;
There is a robe of spotless white,
For gracious souls, and them alone.

There is a sun with sacred rays,
To brighten all the realms above;
There is a harp attuned to praise
Emmanuel's name, the God of fove.

There is a circle so refined,
Of saints with purest friendship crown'd;
United now in heart and mind,
While ceaseless ages circle round.

There is a tree of knowledge bright,
That yields delicious fruit and rare;
There is a crown of dazzling light,
Which
every

faithful soul shall wear.

There is a pleasure so divine,
To gladden and refine the soul;
A star that shall for ever shine,
While Jesus reigns, or ages roll.

O bring me to that happy place!
O bring me where Emmanuel reigns !
Renew my heart by sovereign grace!
Then waft me to the happy plains !