Voracious grave! thou ne’er wast cloy’d! 
   Thy constant cry has been for more,
     Since Abel, thy first victim, died;
   Yet thou art eager as before.

     Once more death bends the fatal bow,—­
   Again he seeks a shining mark;
     Another blooming son lies low,—­
   Death steals away the vital spark.

     Though far from home and those dear friends
   Which soothe his grief and crown his bliss,
     His heavenly Father comfort sends,—­
   The Holy Spirit whispers peace.

     He seeks the dear paternal hearth,
   To die by his fond parent’s side;
     To him the dearest friends on earth,
   Who with a smile each tear would hide.

     A few short weeks he lingered there,
   While heav’nly peace reigned in his breast;
     He cries, my friends, oh now prepare
   To meet where sorrows ne’er molest.

     Though earthly friends are dear to me,
   I feel them twining round my heart,
     A friend in heaven, by faith, I see,
   Who bids my joyful soul depart.

     Dear mourning friends, now dry your tears;
   Bid ev’ry murm’ring thought be still;
     My mind is free from doubts and fears,—­
   I sink into my Savior’s will.

     With smiles of vict’ry on his brow,
   And heav’nly transport in his breast,
     Well pleased, he leaves this vale of woe,
   And like an infant sinks to rest.

     Down through the portals of the sky
   Descend a glorious shining band. 
     Who waft his soul to joys on high,
   And blissful scenes at God’s right hand.

     Nor does the monster yet relent,—­
   Four blooming victims he has slain,
     Yet on another now intent,
   He bends his fatal bow again.

     And must this only daughter go,
   Ere half her budding graces bloom? 
     Yes, cruel death will take her too,
   To swell his numbers in the tomb.

     See on her cheek the death rose bloom,
   And smile with a deceitful glow;
     ’Tis the red banner of the tomb,
   To warn her friends that she must go.

     With bleeding hearts they feel the rod,
   And weeping, lay her in the grave,
     Yet with submission yield to God,
   The precious jewel which he gave.

     But when the trump of God shall sound,
   To call each sainted sleeper home,
     Should they, with ev’ry child, surround
   The mighty conq’ror of the tomb—­

     They’ll cry, oh Lord, thou ever just,
   Behold is and our children here! 
     Thou didst in love give them to us,
   And we resigned them to thy care.

     Now we will chant Redemption’s sung,
   Which Gabriel never learned to sing,
     Nor one of all th’ angelic throng,—­
   To Jesus, prophet, priest and king.

THE ROSE AND LILAC TREE.[2]