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Up to the deep blue starry sky

Then might my soul aspire, and hold Communion fervent, strong and high,

With bard and king, and prophet old: Then might my spirit dare to trace

The path our ancient people trod, When the gray sires of Jacob's race, Like faithful servants, walked with God!

But Israel's song, alas! is hushed,

That all her tales of triumph told,
And mute is every voice that gushed
In music to her harps of gold;
And could my lyre attune its string

To lofty themes they loved of yore,
Alas! my lips could only sing

All that we were but are no more! Our hearts are still by Jordan's stream,

And there our footsteps fain would be; But oh, 't is like the captive's dream

Of home his eyes may never see. A cloud is on our fathers' graves,

And darkly spreads o'er Zion's hill, And there their sons must stand as slaves, Or roam like houseless wanderers still.

Yet, where the rose of Sharon blooms,
And cedars wave the stately head,
Even now, from out the place of tombs,

Breaks a deep voice that stirs the dead. Through the wide world's tumultuous roar

Floats clear and sweet the solemn word,—

"Oh, virgin daughter, faint no more,

Thy tears are seen, thy prayers are heard.
What though, with spirits crushed and broke,
Thy tribes like desert exiles rove,
Though Judah feels the stranger's yoke,
And Ephraim is a heartless dove ;-
Yet, yet shall Judah's LION wake,

Yet shall the day of promise come,
Thy sons from iron bondage break,
And God shall lead the wanderers home!"

THE CLOUDS.

THE clouds! the clouds! they are beautiful
When they sleep on the soft spring sky,
As if the sun to rest could lull

Their snowy company;

And as the wind springs up they start,
And career o'er the azure plain,

And before the course of the breezes dart,
To scatter their balmy rain.

The clouds the clouds! how change their forms
With every passing breath;

And now a glancing sunbeam warms,
And now they look cold as death!
Oh! often and often have I escaped
From the stir of the noisy crowd,
And a thousand fanciful visions shaped
On the face of a passing cloud.

The clouds! the clouds! round the sun at night,

They come like a band of slaves,

They are only bright in their master's light,
And each in his glory laves.

Oh! they are lovely, lovely then,

When the heaven around them glows; Now touched with a purple and amber stain, And now with the hue of the rose.

The clouds! the clouds! in the starlit sky,
How they float on the light wind's wings:
Now resting an instant, then glancing by,
In their fickle wanderings!

Now they hide the deep blue firmament,
Now it shows their folds between,
As if a silver veil were rent

From the jewelled brow of a queen.

The clouds! the clouds! they are the lid
To the lightning's flashing eye;

And in their fleecy folds is hid

The thunder's majesty !

Oh! how their warring is proclaimed
By the shrill blast's battle song;

And the tempest's deadliest shafts are aimed
From the midst of the dark clouds' throng.
The clouds! the clouds!-My childish days
Are past, my heart is old;

But here and there a feeling stays,

That never can grow cold;

And the love of nature is one of these,
That Time's wave never shrouds;
And oft and oft doth my soul find peace
In watching the passing clouds!

GOD IS LOVE.

ALL I feel, and hear, and see,
God of love, is full of thee.

Earth, with her ten thousand flowers;
Air, with all its beams and showers;
Ocean's infinite expanse;
Heaven's resplendent countenance-
All around, and all above,
Hath this record-God is love.

Sounds among the vales and hills,
In the woods, and by the rills,
Of the breeze and of the bird,
By the gentle murmur stirred-
All these songs, beneath, above,
Have one burden-God is love.

All the hopes and fears that start
From the fountain of the heart;
All the quiet bliss that lies,
All our human sympathies-
These are voices from above,
Sweetly whispering-God is love.

THE POOR DEBTOR.

Look on him-through his dungeon grate, Feebly and cold, the morning light Comes stealing round him, dim and late, As if it loathed the sight.

Reclining on his strawy bed,
His hand upholds his drooping head;
His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard,
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard;
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevelled locks of snow.
No grateful fire before him glows,

And yet the winter's breath is chill,
And o'er his half-clad person goes
The frequent ague thrill!
Silent, save ever and anon,
A sound, half murmur and half
Forces apart the painful grip
Of the old sufferer's bearded lip:
O sad and crushing is the fate
Of old age chained and desolate!

groan,

Just God! why lies that old man there?
A murderer shares his prison bed,
Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,
Gleam on him, fierce and red;
And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear,
And, or in wakefulness or sleep,
Nerve, flesh and fibre thrill and creep
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,
Crimson with murder, touches him!

What has the gray-haired prisoner done? Has murder stained his hands with gore? Not so; his crime's a fouler one :

GOD MADE THE OLD MAN POOR! For this he shares a felon's cellThe fittest earthly type of hell;

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