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Methinks thy jubilee to keep
The first-made anthem rang,
And the first poet sang.
How glorious is thy girdle cast
O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down.
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
THE RIGHTEOUS BLESSED IN DEATH.
How bless’d the righteous when he dies !
When sinks a weary soul to rest, How mildly beam the closing eyes,
How gently heaves the expiring breast ! So fades a summer-cloud away,
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day,
So dies a wave along the shore.
A holy quiet reigns around,
A calm which life nor death destroys; Nothing disturbs that peace profound,
Which his unfettered soul enjoys.
Farewell, conflicting hopes and fears,
Where lights and shades alternate dwell! How bright the unchanging morn appears !
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell'
Life's duty done, as sinks the clay,
Light from its load the spirit flies; While heaven and earth combine to say,
“How bless'd the righteous when he dies!"
THE BEAUTIES OF CREATION.
I PRAISED the earth, in beauty seen,
I praised the sun, whose chariot rolled
O God! O good beyond compare !
DEAR is the hallowed morn to me,
When village bells awake the day; And, by their sacred minstrelsy,
Call me from earthly cares away.
And dear to me the winged hour,
Spent in thy hallowed courts, O Lord ! To feel devotion's soothing power,
And catch the manna of thy word.
And dear to me the loud Amen,
Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again,
Dies on the walls, but lives to God.
In secret I have often prayed,
And still the anxious tear would fall; But on thy sacred altar laid,
The fire descends, and dries them all.
Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in his six-days' chain, This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.
Then dear to me the Sabbath morn,
The village bells, the shepherd's voice ; These oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice.
Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbath's sing the charms, Ours be the prophet's car of fire,
That bears us to a Father's arms.