'Tis noiseless thus, yet swift as thought, The stream of Time rolls by; And thus, though man regards them not, A few brief days, in splendour bright, Lord! grant me grace these seasons fleet That I with joy thy face may meet, Who, though he fills a throne above, Oh then, while days and years shall glide In silent speed away, My soul shall view the ebbing tide, But know no sad dismay; At hand, though unperceiv'd, And I Salvation nearer see Than when I first believ'd. CXLVII. KNELL of departed years, Thy voice is sweet to me: It wakes no sad foreboding fears, I hear the sound, Diffusing through the air a holy calm around. Thou art the voice of love, To chide each doubt away; That love divine Will o'er my future path in cloudless mercy shine, Thou art the voice of hope; The music of the spheres, A song of blessings yet to come, My soul delighted hears: By sin deceived, By nature grieved, Still am I nearer rest than when I first believed. Thou art the voice of life: A sound which seems to say, O prisoner in this gloomy vale, Thy flesh shall faint, thy heart shall fail; That cannot pass away: Here, grief and pain Thy steps detain ; There, in the image of the Lord, shalt thou with Jesus reign. CXLVIII. FAIR daffodills! we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early rising sun Hath not attained his noon : Until the hastening day Hath run But to the even-song; And having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you: We have as short a spring, As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing; We die, As your hours do, and dry Like to the summer rain; Or as the pearls of morning dew, CXLIX. THE bell strikes one. We take no note of time I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. How much is to be done? My hopes and fears Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? Who centre'd in our make such strange extremes, A worm! a god!—I tremble at myself, Triumphantly distressed! what joy! what dread! What can preserve my life? or what destroy? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave, Legions of angels can't confine me there. CL. THIS shadow on the dial's face, That steals from day to day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace, Moments, and months, and years away; |