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THE HEAVENLY MINSTREL.

ENTHRONED Upon a hill of light,
A heavenly minstrel sings;
And sounds unutterably bright
Spring from the golden strings.

Who would have thought so fair a form
Once bent beneath an earthly storm?

Yet was he sad and lonely here;
Of low and humble birth;
And mingled, while in this dark sphere,
With meanest sons of earth;

In spirit poor, in look forlorn,
The jest of mortals and the scorn.

A crown of heavenly radiance now,
A harp of golden strings,
Glitters upon his deathless brow,
And to his hymn-note rings.

The bower of interwoven light

Seems, at the sound, to grow more bright.

Then, while with visage blank and sere

The poor in soul we see,

Let us not think what he is here,

But what he soon will be;

And look beyond this earthly night,

To crowns of gold and bowers of light.

COMFORT UNDER AFFLICTION.

WHEN gathering clouds around I view,
And days are dark, and friends are few ;
On Him I lean, who, not in vain,
Experienced every human pain.
He sees my griefs, allays my fears,
And counts and treasures up my tears.

If aught should tempt my soul to stray
From heavenly wisdom's narrow way,
To fly the good I would pursue,
Or do the thing I would not do;
Still He, who felt temptation's power,
Shall guard me in that dangerous hour.

If wounded love my bosom swell,
Despised by those I prized too well;
He shall his pitying aid bestow,
Who felt on earth severer wo-
At once betray'd, denied, or fled,
By those who shared his daily bread.

When vexing thoughts within me rise,
And, sore dismay'd, my spirit dies;
Yet He, who once vouchsafed to bear
The sickening anguish of despair,
Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry,
The throbbing heart, the streaming eye.

When mourning o'er some stone I bend,
Which covers all that was a friend,

And from his voice, his hand, his smile,
Divides me for a little while;

Thou, Savior, mark'st the tears I shed,
For thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead.

And O! when I have safely pass'd
Through every conflict but the last;
Still, still unchanging, watch beside
My painful bed-for thou hast died;
Then point to realms of cloudless day,
And wipe the latest tear away.

THE HEAVENLY REST.

THERE is an hour of peaceful rest,
To mourning wanderers given;
There is a tear for souls distress'd,
A balm for every wounded breast-
'Tis found above-in heaven!

There is a soft, a downy bed,
'Tis fair as breath of even;
A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest the aching head,

And find repose, in heaven!

There is a home for weary souls,

By sin and sorrow driven ;

When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals, Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,

And all is drear-but heaven!

There faith lifts up the tearful eye,
The heart with anguish riven;
And views the tempest passing by,
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all serene, in heaven!

There fragrant flowers immortal bloom,
And joys supreme are given;
There rays divine disperse the gloom:
Beyond the confines of the tomb,
Appears the dawn of heaven!

SOLITUDE.

Ir is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,—
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs
With hallow'd airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sere and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh.

The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;

I've none to smile when I am free,
And, when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision 's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.

REPLY.

CHILD of the dust, I heard thee mourn:
“Will God forsake, and not return?
Unheal'd my wounds, my woes unknown,
Down to the grave I sink alone."

But art thou thus indeed alone,
Quite unbefriended and unknown?
And hast thou then His love forgot,
Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot?

Who laid his Son within the grave,
Thy soul from endless death to save?
Who gave his Spirit to console,
And make thy wounded bosom whole?

Is not His voice in evening's gale?
Beams not in Him the star so pale?
Is there a leaf can fade or die,
Unnoticed by His watchful eye e?

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