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As darkness shows us worlds of light

We never saw by day.



Oh! had I wings like yonder bird,

That soars above its downy nest,
I'd fly away, unseen, unheard,

Where I might be for aye at rest.
I would not seek those fragrant bowers,
Which bloom beneath a cloudless sky,
Nor could I rest amidst the flow'rs,
That deck the groves of Araby.

I'd fly-but not to scenes below,

Though ripe with every promis'd bliss, For what's the world? a garnish'd showA decorated wilderness.

Oh! I would fly and be at rest,

Far, far beyond each glittering sphere That hangs upon the azure breast,

Of all we know of heav'n here.

And there I'd rest amidst the joys,
Angelic lips alone can tell;

Where bloom the bowers of paradise

Where songs in sweetest transports swell.

There would I rest, beneath that throne,
Whose glorious circle gilds the sky;

Where sits Jehovah, who alone,

Can wipe the mourner's weeping eye.



THE Assyrian come down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears were like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Gallilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when autum hath blown That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the Angel of death spread his wings on the blast,

And breath'd on the face of the foe as he pass'd, And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on bis brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.



JERUS'LEM! Jerus'lem, the spoiler has trod,
On the hill of thy Zion the mount of thy God;
And the tow'rs of thy city which brilliantly shone,
Are moulder'd to dust and thy temple is gone.

But where are thy people, the once happy race,
The Israel of God and the pride of their place?
Go ask at their prophets and hear what they say,
For the wrath of Jehovah has forc'd them away.

They are driven afar 'mong the lands of the earth,
Their name is a scorn and the place of their birth;
And no more near their Zion its praises they sing,
For their land is the seat of an infidel king.

But yet, oh! Jerus'lem, thy tow'rs shall again,
Look proud on thy Zion, and smile o'er the plain;
And thy people shall come where the spoiler has


Their city to build, and give praise to their God.



THOU art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see:
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from thee!
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
When day with farewell beam delays,

Among the op'ning clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven,

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Those hues that marks the sun's decline,
So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine.

When night, with wings of stormy gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies
Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with a thousand eyes,
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine.
When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh,
And every flow'r the summer wreathes,
Is born beneath that kindling eye;
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.



How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun,
How lovely and joyful the course that he run,
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun
And there followed some droppings of rain!
But now the fair Traveller's come to the west,
His rays all are gold, and his beauties are best;
He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,
And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the christian: his course he begins
Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins
And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines
And travels his heavenly way.

But, when he comes nearer to finish his race,
ike a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,
And gives a sure hope at the end of his days
Of rising in brighter array!



LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had,
E'en such as man ;-whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.-
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes,-and man he dies!
Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan,
E'en such is man;-who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.-
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,

The swan's near death,-man's life is done!

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LOVELY, lasting, peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human kind!
Heav'nly born, and brad on high,
To crown the fav'rites of the sky
With more of happiness below
Than victors in a triumph know;

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