MORNING.-BY S. G. A.
Now, in the east the crescent morn appears,
And dappled, shoots around the glowing day;
Or spreads along the vaulted arch, and clears
The dark dim shadows from its face away.
No longer curtain'd by the veil of night
She gently spreads her humid wings on high;
And sends abroad her streams of golden light,
And dissipates the darkness of the sky.
The noisy lark now wakes the rural swain ;-
He brushes from his eye the dew of sleep;
And rises to his daily cares again,
The same succession of his toils to keep.
Now fade the spangled heavens from my sight,
Star after star forsakes the arch on high,
Or melts away, or mingles with the light,
Or shines but dimly from the vaulted sky.
The herds no more in sluggish slumbers rest,
But from their grassy couch are soon away;
To shake the drops from off the dew-drench'd nest,
And in the stream their morning thirst allay.
The shepherd follows to his fleecy care
The milk-maid rises to her morning toil;
The woodman's strokes re-echo through the air,
The jocund ploughman breaks the stubborn soil.
The sun's first beams now touch the humid earth,
And from her flowery mantle kiss the dew;
Nature all smiling, bursting into birth,
Far richer glows, and brightens on the view.
Waked by the beams of renovated morn,
Full many a warbler's softest notes I hear;
And sweet reverb'rings of the full-toned horn,
To call the labourer to his morning cheer.
Inscribed to J. B. D. and S. G. A. one of whom had sung the Beau ties of Night, and the other the Glories of Morn, and gave the author for his task the subject of Noon.
To you my friends who sing in lofty strains,
The beauties of the star-bespangled night,
Or glories of the morning, o'er the plains,
And on the mountain-tops-a lovely sight.
Come, listen to my strains, though less sublime;
The grandeur of my subject makes amends:
And if I fail in my attempt this time,
I'll try again, so long as you're my friends.
MORN has its charms, I grant, and EVENING too,
But not like glorious mid-day all around,
One has its chill, the other has its dew,
Danger in this, and death in that is found.
The sprightly damsel, tripping o'er the lawn
Soils her best robes, or wets her tender feet,
If she should rise at morning's early dawn,
And run across the path her friend to greet.
The aged matron stumbles at a stone,
"Falls in the ditch," or wanders from the way; If careless, she should venture out alone,
When evening shades obscure the light of day.
when NOONTIDE GLORY shines around, And mid-day splendor all his charms displays; Darkness, and danger now, no more are found, Lost in Apollo's bright meridian blaze.
See how he mounts his dazzling throne on high,
And downward darts a bright benignant ray ;-
The "tears" of morn "are wip'd from ev'ry eye,"
The evening "shadows" frightened "flee away."
Light, cheering light, full blazing from the sky.
Resplendent shines on all the world below;
Ten thousand beauties meet the wond'ring eye,
Such as the trembling twilight cannot shov.
The genial warmth of Sol's meridian blaze
Dries up the noxious vapors of the earth;
Ten thousand voices shout Jehovah's praise,
And nature brings forth millions at a birth.
Thus in the day of glorious gospel light,
The Jewish types and shadows flee away;
And error's dark, and long continued night,
No more its sceptre o'er the world doth sway.
nus in the new creation of the soul,
Where light divine diffuses life around;
Where sin, and death did reign, without control,
What quick'ning power is felt, what joys abound!
And in that world of bliss to which we rise,
Where shines the light of an eternal day,
No night shall come :-but from our weeping eyes,
Danger, and Death, and Darkness flee away.
Original Music.-Communicated for the Monthly Repository.
THE SAINTS' SWEET HOME.
Words by Mrs. J. Stanley.-Music by Rev. G. Coles.
The popular tune called "Sweet Home," perhaps can never be rivalled, but as it is sung in the theatre, and in the streets of the eity, it was thought that something else might be brought into the social circle, the prayer meeting, and the house of God, with good effect.
'Mid scenes of con- fusion and creature complaints, How sweet to my
While here, in the valley of conflict I stay,
O give me submission and strength as my day;
In all my afflictions to thee would I come,
Rejoicing in hope of my glorious home.
Home, sweet home, &c.
What'er thou deniest, O give me thy grace!
The Spirit's sure witness, and smiles of thy face!
Indulge me with patience, to wait at thy throne,
And find, even now, a sweet foretaste of home.
Home, sweet home, &c.
I long, dearest Lord, in thy beauties to shine,
No more, as an exile, in sorrow to pine;
And in thy fair image, arise from the tomb,
With glorified millions, to praise thee at Home!
Home, sweet home, &c.
The world hath many changes-the fair and verdant earth
Wears not the look it wore when first heaven smiled upon its birth;
Dark rolls the flood of ages, and whelms beneath its tide
The monuments of man's renown, his glory and his pride.
Where are those ancient cities-the proudest of their day?
Their pomp, their splendor-all are gone-passed like a dream away!
Some hath the earthquake swallowed, some have an ocean tomb,
Some in the red volcano's wrath have met their fiery doom.
And some to dark oblivion have sunk by slow decay,
Their very luxury hath worn their strength and power away.-
And is it but the tokens of art and skill alone,
Is it but in the works of man the power of change is shown?
Alas! whatever changes in this fair earth have been,
None are so sad and strange as those which in ourselves are seen;
Our fairest feelings wither, our brightest hopes depart,
And sweet and pleasant thoughts lie dead, and a blight falls on the heart.
And all that once could charm us seems dull, and drear and strange,
Till scarce we recognize ourselves, so deep and dark the change;
But with a saddened spirit we look on those around,
And feel more bitterly the change that oft in them is found.
The eye we loved is altered, and answers ours no more,
But cold and careless is the glance that beamed with love before.
The lip, whose smile of welcome so long was all our own,
Whose accents ever breathed to us affection's cordial tone,
Now smiles on us no longer, and breathes no gentle word,
But cold politeness moulds each phrase, which from those lips is heard.
Ah! sad it is to wander a path bereft of flowers,
And with the phantom of those friends that are no longer ours
Yet is not this a lesson to wean from earthly things
The heart of man, which still too much to earthly objects clings?
To bid our hopes, look onward to that immortal home,
Where lurks no dark deceit, and where no change can ever come'
|