Christ's Resurrection.

THE angels who watch'd round the tomb, Where low the Redeemer was laid, When deep in mortality gloom, He hid for a season his head, That veil'd their fair face while he slept, And ceas' d their sweet harps to employ, Have witness'd his rising, and swept The chords with the triumphs of joy.

Oh, sweet is the season of rest, When life's weary journey is done: The blush that spreads over its west— The last ling'ring ray of its sun! Though dreary the empire of night, I soon shall emerge from its gloom, And see immortality's light, Arise from the shades of the tomb.

Then welcome the last rending sigh, When these aching heartstrings shall break, When death shall extinguish these eyes, And moisten with dew the pale cheek: No terror the prospect begets, I am not mortality's slave: The sunbeam of life, as it sets, Paints rainbows of peace on the grave.