583. L. M. Steele. The Same. 1 So fades the lovely, blooming flower, Frail, smiling solace of an hour; So soon our transient comforts fly, And pleasure only blooms to die. 2 Is there no kind, no healing art, To soothe the anguish of the heart? Spirit of grace, be ever nigh: Thy comforts are not made to die. 3 Let gentle patience smile on pain, Till dying hope revives again; Hope wipes the tear from sorrow's eye, And faith points upward to the sky. 584. C. M. Steele. Death of a Child. 1 Life is a span,--a fleeting hour: How soon the vapor flies! Man is a tender, transient flower, That e'en in blooming dies. 2 The once-loved form, now cold and dead, Each mournful thought employs; And nature weeps, her comforts fled, And withered all her joys. 3 Hope looks beyond the bounds of time, When what we now deplore Shall rise in full, immortal prime, And bloom to fade no more. 4 Cease, then, fond nature, cease thy tears; Thy Saviour dwells on high; There everlasting spring appears; There joy shall never die. 585. 7s. & 6s. M. Anonymous. Children in Heaven. 1 In the broad fields of heaven,-- In the immortal bowers, By life's clear river dwelling, Amid undying flowers,-- There hosts of beauteous spirits, Fair children of the earth, Linked in bright bands celestial, Sing of their human birth. 2 They sing of earth and heaven,-- Divinest voices rise To God, their gracious Father, Who called them to the skies: They all are there,--in heaven,-- Safe, safe, and sweetly blest; No cloud of sin can shadow Their bright and holy rest. 586. S. M. Wilson. Death of a Young Girl. 1 What though the stream be dead, Its banks all still and dry! It murmurs o'er a lovelier bed, In air-groves of the sky. 2 What though our bird of light Lie mute with plumage dim; In heaven I see her glancing bright, I hear her angel hymn. 3 True that our beauteous doe Hath left her still retreat, But purer now in heavenly snow, She lies at Jesus' feet. 4 O star! untimely set! Why should we weep for thee! Thy bright and dewy coronet Is rising o'er the sea. 587. 7s. M. Anonymous. Dirge for an Infant. 1 Lay her gently in the dust; Grievous task, but oh! ye must! Hear the sentence, "earth to earth, Spirit to immortal birth;" Youthful, gentle, undefiled, Angels nurture now the child! 2 Upward soaring, like the dove, Bearing with her chains of love; Not to draw her spirit back, But to smooth her upward track: Her, the youngest of thy fold, Angels watch with love untold!