Then, when on earth I breathe no more
The prayer oft mixed with tears before,
I'll sing upon a happier shore—
GOD THE AUTHOR OF NATURE.
THERE lives and works
A soul in all things, and that soul is God.
The beauties of the wilderness are his,
That make so gay the solitary place,
Where no eyes see them. And the fairer forms
That cultivation glories in are his.
He sets the bright procession on its way,
And marshals all the order of the year;
He marks the bounds which winter may not pass,
And blunts its pointed fury; in its case,
Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ
Uninjured, with inimitable art;
And ere one flowery season fades and dies,
Designs the blooming wonders of the next.
The Lord of all, himself through all diffused,
Sustains and is the life of all that lives.
Nature is but a name for an effect,
Whose cause is God. One spirit-his
Who wore the plaited thorns with bleeding brows, Rules universal nature! Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,
The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.
Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds
Of flavour or of scent, in fruit or flower,
Or what he views of beautiful or grand
In Nature, from the broad majestic oak
To the green blade that twinkles in the sun,
Prompts with remembrance of a present God.
"SAVIOUR, COMFORT ME."
IN the dark and cloudy day,
When earth's riches flee away,
And the last hope will not stay,
Saviour, comfort me!
When the secret idol's gone
That my poor heart yearned upon,
Desolate, bereft, alone,
Saviour, comfort me!
Thou who wast so sorely tried,
In the darkness crucified,
Bid me in thy love confide,
Saviour, comfort me!
So shall it be good for me
Much afflicted now to be,
If thou wilt, but tenderly,
Saviour, comfort me!
FAINTER her slow step falls from day to day—
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,
"I am content to die; but O, not now.
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe-
Nor while the birds such lays of gladness sing-
Not while bright flowers around my footsteps
wreathe.
Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping brow,
I am content to die; but O, not now!
"The spring hath ripened into Summer-time;
The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime :
O, must this glimpse of beauty be the last?
Let me not perish while o'er land and lea,
With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on;
Not while the murmur of the mountain bee
Greets my dull ear, with music in its tone.
Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my brow:
I am content to die; but O, not now!"
Summer is gone, and Autumn's soberer hues
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn:
Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze On the broad meadows and the quiet stream, To watch in silence, while the evening rays
Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam. Cooler the breezes play around my brow,
I am content to die; but O, not now!"
The bleak winds whistle-snow showers far and near
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath passed away, and cold and drear
Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound:
Yet still that prayer ascends-"O, laughingly
My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd;
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,
And the roof rings with voices light and loud!
Spare me awhile, raise up my drooping brow:
I am content to die; but O, not now!"
The spring is come again, the joyful spring;
Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread,
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing-
The child of earth is numbered with the dead!
"Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,
Beaming all redly through the lattice pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,
Nor fond, familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow:
Why did'st thou linger? thou art happier now!"
Mrs. C. B. Wilson.
PILGRIM! that hast meekly borne
All the cold world's bitter scorn,
Journeying through this vale of tears,
Till the promised land appears,
Where the pure in heart shall dwell,
Thou dost bless the Sabbath bell!
IDLER! following Fashion's toys,
Seeking, 'mid its empty joys,
Pleasure-that must end in pain,
Sunshine-that will turn to rain;
What does whisp'ring Conscience tell,
When thou hear'st the Sabbath bell?
POET! dreaming o'er thy lyre,
Wasting health and youthful fire;
Wooing, still, the phantom Fame,
For, at best, a fleeting name;
Burst the chains of Fancy's spell,
Listen! 'tis the Sabbath bell!
MONARCH! on thy regal throne,
RULER! whom the nations own;
CAPTIVE! at thy prison grate,
Sad in heart and desolate;
Bid earth's minor cares farewell,
Hark! it is the Sabbath bell!
|