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Up to the deep blue starry sky
Then might my soul aspire, and hold
But Israel's song, alas! is hushed,
To lofty themes they loved of yore,
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,
"Oh, virgin daughter, faint no more,
Thy sons from iron bondage break,
And God shall lead the wanderers home!"
THE clouds! the clouds! they are beautiful
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!
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;
The clouds! the clouds! in the starlit sky,
Now they hide the deep blue firmament,
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
And the tempest's deadliest shafts are aimed
The clouds! the clouds!-My childish days
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,
Earth, with her ten thousand flowers;
Heaven's resplendent countenance—
Sounds among the vales and hills,
All the hopes and fears that start
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;
And yet the winter's breath is chill,
A sound, half murmur and half groan,
Of old age chained and desolate!
Just God! why lies that old man there?
What has the gray-haired prisoner done?
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;