THE DAY OF MOURNING.

OH! weep not for the joys that fade
Like evening lights away;

For hopes, that like the stars decayed,
Have left thy mortal day;
For clouds of sorrow will depart,
And brilliant skies be given;

And though on earth the tear may start,
Yet bliss awaits the holy heart

Amid the bowers of heaven.

Oh! weep not for the friends that pass
Into the lonesome grave,

As breezes sweep the withered grass
Along the restless wave;

For though thy pleasures may depart,
And darksome days be given,

And lonely though on earth thou art,
Yet bless awaits the holy heart

When friends rejoin in heaven.

MORTALITY.

OH! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud;
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life, to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.

The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection hath proved;
The husband and mother, that infant that blest
Each-all are away, to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose

eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away, like the grass that we tread.

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven;
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed,
That wither away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.

For we are the same things that our fathers have been,
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have

run.

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think, From the death we are shrinking, they too would shrink; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling, But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but their story we cannot unfold;

They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may

come;

They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died! ay, they died! and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow;
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together, like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death;
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud.

JOSIAH CONDER.

N extensive prose writer and sacred poet, Josiah Conder was born at London, on the 17th September 1789. A publisher in the metropolis, he became, in 1814, proprietor of the Eclectic Review; he retired from business

in 1819, but retained the management of the Review till 1837. Subsequent to 1824, he composed a series of descriptive works, which appeared in thirty volumes, under the designation of The Modern

Traveller. In 1833 he became editor of the Patriot newspaper, which he conducted till the period of his death. His demise took place on the 27th December 1855. Conder edited the Congregationalist HymnBook, which appeared in 1836.

COMMUNION WITH CHRIST.
WHEN in the hour of lonely woe,
I give my sorrow leave to flow;
And anxious fear, and dark distrust,
Weigh down my spirit to the dust:

When not e'en friendship's gentle aid
Can heal the wounds the world has made,
Oh! this shall check each rising sigh,
That Jesus is for ever nigh.

His counsels and upholding care,
My safety and my comforts are;
And He shall guide me all my days,
Till glory crown the work of grace.

Jesus in whom but Thee above,
Can I repose my trust, my love?
And shall an earthly object be
Loved in comparison with Thee ?

My flesh is hastening to decay,

Soon shall the world have passed away;
And what can mortal friends avail,

When heart, and strength, and life, shall fail?

But oh! be Thou, my Saviour, nigh,
And I will triumph while I die ;
My strength, my portion, is divine,
And Jesus is for ever mine.

H

CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH.

eminent Christian writer, Charlotte Eliza beth was born at Norwich, on the 1st October 1790. She was the only daughter of Michael Browne, Rector of St Giles' parish, in that city. At an early period, she became the wife of George Phelan, of the 60th Rifle corps, and he dying in 1837, she afterwards accepted the hand of L. N. J. Tonna. death took place at Ramsgate, on the 12th July 1846. The numerous religious writings of Charlotte Elizabeth are held in high estimation.

PARTING.

WHILE to several paths dividing,
We our pilgrimage pursue,
May Jehovah, safely guiding,

Keep His scattered flock in view.

May the bond of sweet communion
Every distant soul embrace;
Till, in everlasting union,

We attain our resting-place.

Oh, 'tis sweet, each other abiding,
In companionship to move;
One pure flame, and heart pervading,
One our Lord, our faith, our love.

Sweet when each can bend, imploring,
Med'cine for his brother's pain;

Or, the stumbling foot restoring,
Cheer him to the race again,

Her