The tones we hear are not the tones of music

and of love,

That breathe from thousand harps the song of endless joy above;

We tread in haste along our path, with trembling and with fear,

For this is not our home,-we've no continuing city here. Home, &c.

Oh, for the death of those that die like daylight in the west,

And sink, like weary waves at eve, to calm,

untroubled rest;

They stand before their Father's face, and fears, and trembling o'er,

Redeemed and washed, they dwell at home,

and shall go out no more.

Home, sweet home!

Oh, for that Land of Rest above, our own

eternal home!

THE END.

W. S. M.

J. TEULON, PRINTER, 57, CHEAPSIDE.