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O for a seraph's wing of fire!
No, on the mightier wings of prayer,
We reach at once that last retreat,
And, ranged among the ransom'd throng, Fall with the elders at his feet,
Whose name alone inspires their song.
Ah, soon, how soon! our spirits droop,
And dwell Himself with men beneath.
Come to thy living temples, then,
And man, O God, thine image here.
THE Lord my pasture shall prepare,
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Though in the paths of death I tread,
Though, in a bare and rugged way,
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
WHEN, marshall'd on the nightly plain,
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
Once on the raging seas I rode,
The storm was loud, the night was dark,
The ocean yawn'd, and rudely blow'd
Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ;
When suddenly a star arose,
It was my guide, my light, my all,
Now safely moor'd—my perils o'er,
The Star!-the Star of Bethlehem !
THE POWER OF GOD.
THE Lord our God is full of might,
He speaks, and in his heavenly height
Rebel, ye waves, and o'er the land
Howl, winds of night, your force combine;
Ye shall not in the mountain-pine
Disturb the sparrow's nest.
His voice sublime is heard afar,
He yokes the whirlwinds to his car,
Ye nations, bend, in reverence bend,
To celebrate the God!
ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT.
COME, Disappointment, come!
Not in thy terrors clad;
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies
The restless and the bad.
But I recline
Beneath thy shrine,
And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress
Though Fancy flies away
Before thy hollow tread,
Yet Meditation, in her cell,
Hears, with faint eye, the lingering knell,
That tells her hopes are dead.
And though the tear
By chance appear,
Yet she can smile, and say, "My all was not laid here."
Come, Disappointment, come!
Though from Hope's summit hurl'd,
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven,
For thou severe wert sent from heaven
To wean me from the world:
To turn my eye
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.
What is this passing scene?
A peevish April day!
A little sun-a little rain,
And then night sweeps along the plain,
And all things fade away
Man (soon discuss'd)
Yields up his trust,
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.
O, what is Beauty's power?
It flourishes and dies;
Will the cold earth its silence break,
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek
Beneath its surface lies?
Mute, mute is all
O'er Beauty's fall;
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.
The most beloved on earth
Not long survives to-day;
So music past is obsolete,
And yet 't was sweet, 't was passing sweet,
Thus does the shade
In memory fade,
When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid.