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But soon, with swift unburden'd wing,
His soul shall mount above,
In one eternal strain to sing
A dying Savior's love.
"THOU HAST MADE SUMMER AND WINTER."
My God, all nature owns thy sway;
Thou givest the night and thou the day.
When all thy loved creation wakes,
When morning, rich in lustre, breaks,
And bathes in dew the opening flower,
To thee we owe her fragrant hour;
And, when she pours her choral song,
Her melodies to thee belong!
Or when, in paler tints array'd,
The evening slowly spreads her shade;
That soothing shade, that grateful gloom,
Can, more than day's enlivening bloom,
every fond and vain desire,
And calmer, purer thoughts inspire;
From earth the pensive spirit free,
And lead the soften'd heart to thee.
In every scene thy hands have dress'd,
In every form by thee impress'd,
Upon the mountain's awful head,
Or where the sheltering woods are spread;
In every note that swells the gale,
Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale,
The cavern's depth or echoing grove,—
A voice is heard of praise and love.
As o'er thy works the seasons roll,
And soothe, with change of bliss, the soul,
O never may their smiling train
Pass o'er the human soul in vain!
But oft, as on their charms we gaze,
Attune the wondering soul to praise,
And be the joys that most we prize,
The joys that from thy favor rise.
THE morning flowers display their sweets,
And gay their silken leaves unfold,
As careless of the noontide heats,
As fearless of the evening cold.
Nipp'd by the wind's unkindly blast,
Parch'd by the sun's directer ray,
The momentary glories waste,
The short-lived beauties die away.
So blooms the human face divine,
When youth its pride of beauty shows;
Fairer than spring the colors shine,
And sweeter than the virgin rose :
Till, worn by slowly rolling years,
Or broke by sickness in a day,
The fading glory disappears,
The short-lived beauties die away.
Yet these, new rising from the tomb,
With lustre brighter far shall shine;
Revive with ever-during bloom,
Safe from diseases and decline.
Let sickness blast, let death devour,
If heaven must recompense our pains;
Perish the grass, and fade the flower,
If firm the word of God remains.
UPON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
Ан me! these youthful bearers, robed in white,
They tell a mournful tale. Some blooming friend
Is gone,—dead in her prime of years. 'T was she,
The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give,
With angel tongue persuaded those who could;
With angel tongue, and mild beseeching eye,
That ne'er besought in vain, save when she prayed
For longer life, with heart resign'd to die,-
Rejoiced to die,-for happy visions bless'd
Her voyage's last days, and, hovering round,
Alighted on her soul, giving presage
That heaven was nigh. O what a burst
Of rapture from her lips! What tears of joy
Her heavenward eyes suffused! Those eyes are closed;
But all her loveliness is not yet flown.
She smiled in death, and still her cold, pale face
Retains that smile: as when a waveless lake,
In which the wintry stars all bright appear,
Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice,
Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged,
Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast.
THE FAMILY IN HEAVEN AND EARTH.
'Tis but one family!—the sound is balm,
A seraph-whisper to the wounded heart;
It lulls the storm of sorrow to a calm,
And draws the venom from the avenger's dart.
'Tis but one family!-the accents come
Like light from heaven, to break the night of wo, The banner cry, to call the spirit home, The shout of victory o'er a fallen foe.
Death cannot separate—is memory dead?
Has thought, too, vanish'd? and has love grown chill? Has every relic and memento fled?
And are the living only with us still?
No! in our hearts the lost we mourn remain,
Objects of love and ever fresh delight;
And fancy leads them in her fairy train
In half-seen transports past the mourner's sight
Yes! in ten thousand ways, or far or near,
The call'd by love, by meditation brought,
In heavenly visions yet they haunt us here,
The sad companions of our sweetest thought.
Death never separates the golden wires
That ever trembled to their names before,
Will vibrate still, though every form expires,
And those we love we look upon no more.
No more indeed in sorrow and in pain,
But even memory's need ere long will cease For we shall join the lost of love again, In endless bands, and in eternal peace.
FROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,
From many a balmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain.
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft on Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile:
In vain, with lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are strewn,
The Heathen, in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone.
Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Shall we to man benighted
The lamp of life deny?