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318 The Book of Praise.
O spread Thy pure wing o'er them !
Let no ill Power find place, When onward to Thine altar
The hallow'd path they trace,
To cast their crowns before Thee
In perfect sacrifice, Till to the home of gladness
With Christ's own Bride they rise !
John Keble. 1857.
VII. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD.
Thou God of Love ! beneath Thy sheltering wings
We leave our holy dead, To rest in hope ! From this world's sufferings
Their souls have fled !
Oh! when our hearts are burthen'd with the weight
Of life, and all its woes, Let us remember them, and calmly wait
To our life's close !
Jane Euphemia Browne. (1849.)
Nunc suscifte, terra, fovenduni.
Receive him, Earth, unto thine harbouring shrine ;
In thy soft tranquil bosom let him rest; These limbs of man I to thy care consign,
And trust the noble fragments to thy breast.