HENRY HART MILMAN.

FUNERAL HYMN.

BROTHER, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown,
Where tears are wip'd from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown;
From the burden of the flesh,

And from care and fear releas'd; Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er,
And borne the heavy load,
But Christ has taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode;
Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,
Upon his Father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,

Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail:

And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said,
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

Dost thou not love, in the season of spring,
To twine thee a flowery wreath,

And to see the beautiful birch-tree fling
Its shade on the grass beneath?

Its glossy leaf, and its silvery stem;

Oh! dost thou not love to think on them?

And dost thou not love, when leaves are greenest
And summer has just begun,

When in the silence of moonlight thou leanest,
Where glist'ning waters run,

To see, by that gentle and peaceful beam,
The willow bend down to the sparkling stream?

And oh! in a lovely autumnal day,

When leaves are changing before thee, Do not Nature's charms, as they slowly decay, Spread their own mild influence o'er thee? And hast thou not felt, as thou stood'st to gaze, The touching lesson such scene displays?

It should be thus, at an age like thine;

And it has been thus with me;

When the freshness of feeling and heart were mine,

As they never more can be:

Yet think not I ask thee to pity my lot,

Perhaps I see beauty where thou dost not.

BERNARD BARTON.

Hast thou seen, in winter's stormiest day,
The trunk of a blighted oak,

Not dead, but sinking in slow decay,

Beneath Time's resistless stroke, Round which a luxuriant ivy had grown,

And wreath'd it with verdure no longer its own?

Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then,
As I, at thy years, might do,

Pass'd carelessly by, nor turn'd again

That scathed wreck to view:

But now I can draw from that mould'ring tree,
Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me.

O smile not! nor think it a worthless thing,
If it be with instruction fraught;
That which will closest and longest cling,
Is alone worth a serious thought;

Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed
Grace on the dying, and leaves not the dead?

Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him

Who giveth, upbraiding not,

That his light in thy heart become not dim,
And his love be unforgot;

And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness and beauty and strength to thee!

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BERNARD BARTON.

SEA-SIDE THOUGHTS.

BEAUTIFUL, sublime, and glorious,
Mild, majestic, foaming, free ;-
Over time itself victorious,

Image of eternity.

Sun, and moon, and stars shine o'er thee,
See thy surface ebb and flow;

Yet attempt not to explore thee,

In thy soundless depths below.

Whether morning's splendours steep thee,
With the rainbow's glowing grace,
Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee,
'Tis but for a moment's space.

Earth, her valleys, and her mountains,
Mortal man's behests obey;

The unfathomable fountains

Scoff his search, and scorn his sway.

Such art thou-stupendous Ocean!
But, if overwhelmed by thee,
Can we think without emotion

What must thy Creator be?

THE ORPHAN BOY.

STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale!
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake!
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows' flame!
To force me home my mother sought,
She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor orphan boy.
The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother shuddering closed her ears!
"Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd;
My mother answer'd with her tears.
"Oh! why do tears steal down your cheek,"
Cried I, "while others shout for joy?"
She kiss'd me, and in accents weak,
She call'd me her poor orphan boy.

"What is an orphan boy?" I said,

When suddenly she gasp'd for breath; And her eyes closed;-I shriek'd for aid,But, ah! her eyes were closed in death! My hardships since I will not tell; But now no more a parent's joy-Ah, lady! I have learnt too well, What 'tis to be an orphan boy. O were I by your bounty fed!Nay, gentle lady! do not chide! Trust me, I mean to earn my bread; The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep-what is't you say? You'll give me clothing, food, employ ?— Look down, dear parents! look and see Your happy, happy orphan boy.