(J. M. D.)


I thank Thee Father that I feel Thee near,
That it is hand of Thine that s raised to smite,
Oh, make Thy loving kindness to appear,
Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right!

Poor woe-worn watchers! he is going home;
No skill can save him, and no love can keep;
He served his generation--he is gone,
And gathered to his fathers, falls asleep.

We've bitter cups to drain--but his is dry;
Burdens of care--but care has left his breast;
Tears--but they never more shall dim his eye;
Labour,--but he has entered into rest.

Oh, to be with him, toil and care all past,
Sleeping, dear mother earth, within thy breast,
I, too, could lay my hand in thine, O death,
And gladly enter where the weary rest.




ORSON'S FAREWELL.

(ORSON GROUT),