STANZAS.

For me there'll be no great display, No turning out of people, When I do quit my house of clay, Nor tolling from the steeple

Of yon tower with its tin capped dome, Whose bell the time is telling, When some lone wanderer reaches home— His narrow churchyard dwelling.

Nor yet will pompous equipage, Or such like things sublun'ral, Nor music sweet with charms engage Those who attend my funeral.

Nor will I care if but my death Take place while friends are tending; And I can see with eye of faith My blessed Saviour bending

Down upon me a gracious eye, And bid my spirit enter Into her rest. O, then I'd fly And cleave to Him—-the Center

Of those sweet joys which do abound In yon bright world of Glory, Where I shall hear the blissful sound Of that delightful Story,

How Jesus did our cause engage, When he left Heaven's portal, And stooped to conquer hellish rage, In weakness like a mortal.

How he fulfilled in its demands The Law that we had broken; How God exacted at his hands The strongest, clearest token

Of matchless Love, so that He gave His life's blood for transgression, And left the confines of the grave In glorious Resurrection.