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The curse of Cain, (Gen. iv. 15. and 16.)
AWAKE MY LYRE
AWAKE my lyre, and may thy string
To heaven's gate the accents raise :
Which Angels sing, my heart inspire To guide my hand which feebly strays Along each chord to tune my lyre. Awake my lyre, 'tis morning hour; The birds are singing in the grove, And 'midst the song from bower to bower Will man forget his Maker's love?He who hath form'd the heavens above,The earth, and still upholds the whole : Will man to God ungrateful prove,
Nor praise him with his heart and soul?
Awake my lyre, the setting sun
In clouds of gold has left the sky;
And now another day is run,
And all its actions known on high.
Then let my hand thy soft notes try
For all my sins the whole day long.
Awake my lyre, let some sweet lay,
And dry at once the mourner's tear.
And when his silent footsteps tread
May music cheer till all is filed
All but the glories of the skies.
SACRED POETRY-ITS SUPERIORITY AND
How beautiful is genius when combin'd
ROBERT POLLOK, author of the "Course of Time," was a youthful poet of great promise; but alas! his career was soon cut short; and he has left a memento behind, in that Dowerful though unequal poem which will embalm his me ory on the heart of every true lover of eloquent and im oned song.