Death is the bane of woe, the grave of vice,
The portal opening into Paradise;

Where grace, that in the bud was here below,
Into the flower of glory straight shall blow:
Where saints' immortal souls, made more divine,
Shall with the diamonds of perfection shine;
Where they, to their unspeakable delight,
Of God Himself shall have a perfect sight;
Where, in their wills there shall a likeness be
To God, in holiness and purity;

Where, having shot the gulf of death, they shall
Wear on their heads a crown imperial;
Where the rich caskets of their souls shall be
O'erlaid with glory's best embroidery ;
Where no contaminating tincture e'er
Shall their unspotted purity besmear;
Where God Himself unto the saints shall be
A spring of life to perpetuity;

Where they shall in the fragrant bosom lie
Of their Belovéd to eternity;

Where the enamel of their glory shall

Never wear off, nor soiléd be at all;

Where they a glorious kingdom shall receive,
Of which no power on earth can them bereave;
Where they their safety shall behold from all
Insulting foes, and their eternal thrall;

Where they shall be partakers of that joy
Which will them satisfy, but never cloy;
Where Baca unto Beracha shall be

Converted, mourning into melody

Where brinish tears shall never dim their eyes, Nor shall their ears be frighted more with cries:

Where sorrows ne'er shall damp their hearts again,
Nor shall their senses be disturb'd with pain;
Where length of years, without the least decay
Of strength, they shall enjoy; yea, where for aye
They shall be blesséd with the love of many,
And need not fear the jealousy of any;
Where for their labor a "quietus est"

Each saint shall have, and ever be at rest;
Where life and immortality they shall

Have, for their death in Christ, and Christ for all.

MY SPIRIT LONGS FOR HEAVEN.

Mrs. EMILY C. JUDSON.

YES, let me die! am I of spirit-birth,

And shall I linger here where spirits fell,
Loving the stain they cast on all the earth!
O, make me pure, with pure ones e'er to dwell!

'Tis sweet to die! the flowers of earthly love, (Frail, frail spring blossoms,) early droop and die; But all their fragrance is exhaled above, Upon our spirits evermore to lie.

Life is a dream, a bright, but fleeting dream,
I can but love; but then my soul awakes,
And from the mist of earthliness a gleam
Of heavenly light, of truth immortal, breaks.

I shrink not from the shadows sorrow flings
Across my pathway; nor from cares that rise
In every footprint; for each shadow brings

Sunshine and rainbow as it glooms and flies.

But heaven is dearer. There I have my treasure;
There angels fold in love their snowy wings;
There sainted lips chant in celestial measure,
And spirit-fingers stray o'er heaven-wrought strings.

There loving eyes are on the portals straying;
There arms extend a wanderer to fold;
There waits a dearer, holier One, arraying
His own in spotless robes and crowns of gold.

Then let me die. My spirit longs for heaven,
In that pure bosom evermore to rest;
But, if to labor longer here be given,

"Father, thy will be done!" and I am blest.

WHO DOTH NOT CRAVE THY REST?

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

"Having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ, which is far better."

PARADISE, O Paradise,

Who doth not crave thy rest?
Who would not seek the happy land
Where they that loved are blest?

Where loyal hearts and true
Stand ever in the light,
All rapture through and through,
In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise, O Paradise,

The world is growing old;
Who would not be at rest and free
Where love is never cold?

Where loyal hearts and true, etc.

O Paradise, O Paradise,
'Tis weary waiting here;
I long to be where Jesus is,
To feel, to see Him near;

Where loyal hearts and true, etc.

O Paradise, O Paradise,

I want to sin no more,

I want to be as pure on earth

As on thy spotless shore;

Where loyal hearts and true, etc.

O Paradise, O Paradise,

I greatly long to see

The special place my dearest Lord
In love prepares for me;

Where loyal hearts and true, etc.

Lord Jesu, King of Paradise,
O keep me in Thy love,
And guide me to that happy land
Of perfect rest above;

Where loyal hearts and true
Stand ever in the light,

All rapture through and through,
In God's most holy sight. Amen.

MY SOUL, DON'T DELAY, HE CALLS THEE

AWAY.

JOHN GAMBOlde.

TELL me no more of this world's vain store, The time for such trifles with me now is o'er; A country I've found where true joys abound, To dwell I'm determined on that happy ground.

The souls that believe, in Paradise live,
And me in that number will Jesus receive:
My soul, don't delay-He calls thee away,
Rise, follow thy Saviour, and bless the glad day.

No mortal doth know what He can bestow,

What light, strength, and comfort: go after Him, go; Lo, onward I move to a city above,

None guesses how wondrous my journey will prove.

Great spoils I shall win from death, hell, and sin,
'Midst outward afflictions shall feel Christ within:
And when I'm to die, Receive me, I'll cry,
For Jesus hath loved me, I cannot tell why.