But if on earth so calm, so blest,
The house of prayer, the day of rest;
If to the spirit when it faints,
So sweet the assembly of the saints ;-
There let us pitch our tents (we say),
For, Lord, with Thee 'tis good to stay!
Yet from the mount we soon descend,
Too soon our earthly Sabbaths end;
Cares of a work-day will return,
And faint our hearts, and fitful, burn;
Oh! think, my soul! beyond compare,
Think what a Sabbath must be there,
Where all is holy bliss, that knows
Nor imperfection, nor a close;
Where that innumerable throng
Of saints and angels mingle song;
Where, wrought with hands, no temples rise,
For God Himself their place supplies ;
Nor priests are needed in th' abode
Where the whole host are priests to God.
Think what a Sabbath there shall be,
The Sabbath of Eternity!
FAIREST of those that left the calm of heaven,
And ventured down to man with words of
Daughter of Grace! known by whatever name, Religion, Virtue, Piety, or Love
Of Holiness, the day of thy reward
Was come. Ah! thou wast long despised, despised
By those thou wooedst from death to endless life.
Modest and meek, in garments white as those
That seraphs wear, and countenance as mild
As Mercy looking on Repentance' tear;
With eye of purity, now darted up
To God's eternal throne; now humbly bent
Upon thyself, and weeping down thy cheek,
That glowed with universal love immense,
A tear, pure as the dews that fall in heaven;
In thy left hand, the olive branch, and in
Thy right, the crown of immortality ;-
With noiseless foot, thou walkedst the vales of
Beseeching men, from age to age, to turn
From utter death, to turn from woe to bliss.
Reception of Grace.
IVE ever in my heart, sweet awful hour, When prostrate in my sin and shame I lay, And heard the absolving accents fall with power, As soft, as keen, as lambent lightnings play.
And sure with lightning glance they seem'd to thrill,
(O may the dream prove true!) and search
Each foul dark corner of my lawless will.
What if the Spirit griev'd did then return ?-
O fear, O joy to think!—and what if yet,
In some far moment of eternity,
The lore of evil I may quite forget,
And with the pure in heart my portion be?
Live in my heart, dread blissful hope, to tame The haughty brow, to curb the unchastened eye, And shape to deeds of good each wavering aim; O teach me some true penance ere I die!
SOMETIMES indeed, when Wisdom in their
Whispered, and with its disenchanting wand
Effectually touched the sorcery of their eyes,
Directly pointing to the holy Tree,
Where grew the food they sought, they turned surprised
That they had missed so long what now they found. As one upon whose mind some new and rare Idea glances, and retires as quick,
Ere memory has time to write it down':
Stung with the loss, into a thoughtful cast He throws his face, and rubs his vexed brow; Searches each nook and corner of his soul With frequent care; reflects, and re-reflects,
And tries to touch relations that may start
The fugitive again; and oft is foiled;
Till something like a seeming chance, or flight
Of random fancy, when expected least,
Calls back the wandered thought, long sought in vain;
Then does uncommon joy fill all his mind;
And still he wonders, as he holds it fast,
What lays so near he could not sooner find;
So did the man rejoice, when from his eye
The film of folly fell, and what he, day
And night, and far and near, had idly searched,
Sprang up before him suddenly displayed;
So wondered why he missed the tree so long.
Retrospection.
APPY those early days, when I
Shined in my angel-infancy!
Before I understood this place,
Appointed for my second race;
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white celestial thought;
When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first love;
And, looking back at that short space,
Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
When on some gilded cloud or flower
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;
Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound;
Or had the black art to dispense,
A several sin to every sense;
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.
Oh! how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain
Where first I left my glorious train;
From whence the enlightened spirit sees
That shady city of palm-trees;
But, oh! my soul, with too much stay,
Is drunk, and staggers in the way.
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move;
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came return.
Right Method of Prayer.
POOR heart, lament:
For since thy God refuseth still,
There is some rub, some discontent,
Which cools his will.
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