"Let me die, father! I tremble, and fear To yield in that terrible strife!" "The crown must be won for Heaven, dear, In the battle-field of life; My child, though thy foes are strong and tried, He loveth the weak and small; The angels of heaven are on thy side, And God is over all!" --_Adelaide Procter._ THE ANGEL'S CALL. Come to the land of peace! Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, The shadow passes from the soul away, The sounds of weeping cease. Fear hath no dwelling there! Come to the mingling of repose and love, Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove Through the celestial air! Come to the bright and blest And crown'd for ever!--'midst that shining band, Gather'd to heaven's own wreath from every land, Thy spirit shall find rest! Thou hast been long alone: Come to thy mother!--on the sabbath shore, The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more Shall take its wearied one. In silence wert thou left! Come to thy sisters!--joyously again All the home voices, blest in one sweet strain, Shall greet their long-bereft. Over thine orphan head The storm hath swept as o'er a willow's bough: Come to thy father!--it is finish'd now; _Thy tears have all been shed_. In thy divine abode Change finds no pathway, mem'ry no dark trace, And, oh! bright victory--death by love no place! Come, Spirit! to thy God! --_Mrs. Hemans._ I would not live alway: I ask not to stay, Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer. I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin, Temptation without and corruption within: E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears. I would not live alway; no, welcome the tomb; Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom; There sweet be my rest, till He bid me arise To hail Him in triumph descending the skies. Who, who would live alway, away from his God! Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns. Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul. --_Muhlenberg._ Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice oppressed. I know not, oh, I know not What joys await us there, What radiancy of glory, What bliss beyond compare. They stand, those halls of Sion, All jubilant with song, And bright with many an Angel, And all the Martyr throng; The Prince is ever in them, The daylight is serene; The pastures of the blessed Are decked in glorious sheen.