Some friendly hand the eye-lids close,*
And leave the clay to short repose ;*
'Till on your knees be thanks exprest,*
According as the Lord has blest;

This tongue, then mute, can now foretell,
Jesus shall have done all things well.
Should Sov'reign wisdom will it so,
That I in secret with him go,
Then he himself will stand me by,
And ev'ry needful aid supply.
Upon his dear, his faithful breast,
My heart, and head, shall safely rest;
The flutt'ring pulse and bursting sigh,
He'll sooth with "Fear not, it is I."
Into his hands my spirit I'll breathe,
Inhaling life, from him in death:
Though none should see, faith can foretell,
My Jesus shall do all things well.
But circumstance of ev'ry sort,
May be imagination's sport;

Nought can to faith safe food afford,
But what is found in God's own word.

In Christ, who is th' essential word,
The word inspir'd, that Word's record,
Here faith may roam and feed secure,
For ev'ry promise here is sure.
Tho' he deny my half-form'd pray'r,
Well may I cast on Him my care,
All things are mine, or life, or death,
I his, he God's, Himself thus saith.
Should he in Jordan's topmost wave
Me plunge, I'll grace sufficient have,
Pass safely thro' the foaming deep,
As if the flood stood heap on heap.
To leave for me that channel dry,
Which pleas'd imagination's eye;
Then let my will be sunk in thine,
It is enough, thyself art mine.
Be this, my only wish beside,
That God's great name be glorified,
What me concerns faith can foretell,
My Jesus shall do all things well.

The following Poems were found among some old papers, and are supposed to be original-they were written in the Island of Antigua shortly after Doctor Graham's death.

PART I.

Hail thou state of widowhood,
State of those that mourn to God;

*These circumstances took place, as here described, although surviving friends had not then any knowledge of this poem.

Who from all our comforts torn,

Only live to pray and mourn.
Meanest of the number, I

For my dear companion sigh,
Patiently my loss deplore,

Mourn for one, that mourns no more.

Me my consort hath outrun,
Out of sight he quite is gone;
He his course has finish'd here,
First come, to the sepulchre.
Following on with earnest haste,
'Till my mourning days are past,
I my partner's steps pursue,
I shall soon be happy too;
Find the ease for which I pant,
Gain the only good I want;
Quietly lay down my head,
Sink into my earthly hed.

There my flesh shall rest in hope,
'Till the quicken'd dust mount up;
When to glorious life I'll rise,
To meet my husband in the skies.

PART II.

Happy they who trust in Jesus, Jesus turns our loss to gain; Still his baliny mercies ease us, Sweeten all our grief and pain. When he calls our friends t' inherit All the glories of the blest; He assures the widow'd spirit, "Thou shalt quickly be at rest." Tho' my flesh and spirit languish, Let me not too much complain; Sure at last t' outlive my anguish ; Sure to find my friend again. Ransom'd from a world of sorrow, He to-day is taken home; I shall be releas'd to-morrow; Come, my dear Redeemer, come. From my sanctified distresses, Now, or when thou wilt, receive, Grant with him in thine embraces, After all my deaths, to live.

PART III.

Hail! holy, holy, holy Lord!
Mysterious three in one;
For ever be thy name ador'd,
Thy will for ever done.

For this alone on earth I wait,

To glorify my God;

1

And suffer since thou will'st the state

Of sacred widowhood.

And may I in thy strength fulfil
My awful character;
And prove thine acceptable will,
And do thy pleasure here.

The children unto thee restore,
Whom thou to me hast giv'n,
Ard rule my house with all my pow'r,
And train them up for heav'n.

Be this my hospitable care,

The stranger to receive;

The burden of thy Church to bear,
And all their wants relieve.

My labour of unwearied love
With pleasure to repeat;
My faith unto thy saints to prove,
And gladly wash their feet.

The servant of thy servants bless,
With active earnest zeal ;
And every work of righteousness
I shall with joy fulfil

Wond'ring, I ask, where is the breast;
Struggling so late, and rack'd with pain,
The eyes that upward look'd for rest,
And dropt their weary lids again?
The recent horrors still appear;
O may they never cease to awe!
Still is the king of terrors near,
Whom late in all his pomp I saw.

Torture and sin prepar'd his way,
And pointed to a yawning tomb:
Darkness behind eclips'd the day,

And check'd his forward hopes of home.

'Twas not the searching pain within,
That fill'd the coward flesh with fear;
Nor consciousness of outward sin,
Nor sense of dissolution near.

Of hope he felt no joyful ground,
The fruit of righteousness alone;
Naked of Christ his soul he found,

And started from a God unknown.
His feeble flesh refus'd to bear

Its strong redoubled agonies; When mercy heard his feeble prayer, And saw him faintly gasp for ease.

"Father! if I may call thee mine,

From heav'n and thee remov'd so far,*

Draw near, thy pitying eye incline,
And cast not out my languid prayer.

"How shall I lift my guilty eyes,
Or dare appear before thy face,
When deaf to mercy's loudest cries,
I long have wearied out thy grace?
"Loos'd from my God, and far remov'd,
Long have I wander'd to and fro;
O'er earth in endless circles rov'd,
And sought a place of rest below.
"In darkness willingly I stray'd,

I sought thee, yet from thee I rov'd;
For wide my wand'ring thoughts were spread;
Thy creatures more than thee I lov'd.*
"Corrupt my will, nor half subdu'd;
Can I thy purer presence bear?
Unchang'd, unhallow'd, unrenew'd,
Dare I before thy face appear?
"Father of mercies! hear my call,
Ere yet arrive the fatal hour;
Repair my loss, retrieve my fall,

And raise me by thy quick'ning power. "My nature re-exchange for thine,

Be thou my life, my hope, my gain; Clothe me with righteousness divine,

And death shall shake his dart in vain.
"When I thy promis'd Christ have seen,
And clasp'd him in my soul's embrace;
Possess'd of my salvation then,

Then let me, Lord, depart in peace.
"I nothing have, wherein to trust,
I nothing have, I nothing am;
Excluded is my ev'ry boast,

My glory swallow'd up in shame.
"Guilty I stand before thy face,
I feel on me thy wrath abide;
'Tis just, the sentence should take place,
'Tis just, but, Oh! thy Son has died!
"Jesus, the Lamb of God, hath bled,
He bare our sins upon the tree;
Beneath our curse, he bow'd his head,
'Tis finish'd! he hath died for me!
"Lo! now before the throne he stands,
And pours the all prevailing prayer;
Points to his side, and lifts his hands,
And shows that I am graven there.
"He ever lives for me to pray;

He prays that I, with him, may reign;
Amen, to what my Lord doth say;
Jesus, thou canst not pray in vain,
"A stranger long to thee, and rest;
Behold the prodigal is come;
O! open wide thine arms and breast,
And take the weary wanderer home!

"O draw me, Saviour, after thee!
So shall I run, and never tire;
With gracious words still comfort me :
My life, my hope, my sole desire!
"Fain would I leave this earth below,
Of pain, and sin, the dark abode;
Where shadowy joy, or solid wo,

Allure, or tear me from my God.
"Whither should now my soul aspire,
But heav'nward, to my Saviour's breast;
Wafted on wings of warm desire,
To gain her everlasting rest?

"Where thou, and only thou, art love;
Far from the world's insidious art;
Beyond the rage of fiends remov'd,
And safe from my deceitful heart.
"There let me rest, and sin no more:
Come quickly, Lord, and end the strife;
Hasten my last, my mortal hour,

Swallow me up in endless life.

"Thankful I take the cup from thee,

Prepar d, and mingled by thy skill;
Tho' bitter to the taste it be,

Pow'rful the wounded soul to heal.
"When pains o'er my weak flesh prevail,
With lamb-like patience, arm my breast;
If fear my wounded soul assail,

O cheer me by thy promis'd rest!

"Speak to my fears, and doubtings, peace;
Say to my trembling heart, be still;
Thy power, my strength and fortress is,
Along the dark and dreary vale.

"Tis done; life's struggle now is o'er,
Close to my Saviour now I cling;
He saves me by redeeming power,
Disarms the monster of his sting:

The Saviour's kind, he takes me home;
Amen! sweet Jesus, come, Lord, come!"

Peace, fluttering soul! the storm is o'er,
Ended at last the doubtful strife;

He flies to heav'n, returns no more;
A widow thou, no more a wife.

And wilt thou yet be found,

And may I still draw near?
Then listen to the plaintive sound
Of a poor sinner's prayer.
Jesus! thine aid afford,

If still the same thou art :
To thee I look, to thee, my Lord,
Lift up an helpless heart.