THE QUAKER FLOWER.A TRIFOLIUM FROM THE GRAVE OF PENN.I havea little Quaker flower,That hath a kind of spirit powerTo hold me captive, hour by hour,In pleasant musing lost;’T was plucked for me in distant land,And by another’s friendly hand,From turf where I may never stand;Then yon wild ocean crossed.A modest foreigner it came,Bearing a sweet, but humble name;Yet worthy of a glorious fameAmong the sons of men;For O the pretty stranger grew:It drank the ether and the dew,And from light received its hueUpon the grave ofPenn!It sprang from out that hallowed ground,Unclosed its eye, and smiled around,Upon the verdure of the mound,WhereWilliam’s ashes rest;Where low the dust in quiet liesOf him, among the good and wiseOn earth, so meek, and in the skiesSo high among the blest.And had my flower a living root,Or seed wherefrom a germ might shootFor one young plant to be the fruitOf that small vital part,FairPenn-Sylvania, it should be,My friendly offering made to thee—Set, to thy father’s memory,On thy kind Quaker heart.But, ah! my precious flower is dead:The snow-white sheet beneath its head,And on its tender bosom spread,Shows that its life is o’er:And though each floweret of the gem,And every leaf, is on the stem,I cannot spare thee one of them,Because there ’ll grow no more.I therefore bid my fancy weaveThis simple wreath, which thou ’lt receiveIn lieu thereof; and thence believeMy fervent wish to beThat Heaven, to overflowing still,With purest bliss thy cup may fill,And guard thee safe from every ill,Whilst thou rememberest me!
A TRIFOLIUM FROM THE GRAVE OF PENN.
I havea little Quaker flower,That hath a kind of spirit powerTo hold me captive, hour by hour,In pleasant musing lost;’T was plucked for me in distant land,And by another’s friendly hand,From turf where I may never stand;Then yon wild ocean crossed.A modest foreigner it came,Bearing a sweet, but humble name;Yet worthy of a glorious fameAmong the sons of men;For O the pretty stranger grew:It drank the ether and the dew,And from light received its hueUpon the grave ofPenn!It sprang from out that hallowed ground,Unclosed its eye, and smiled around,Upon the verdure of the mound,WhereWilliam’s ashes rest;Where low the dust in quiet liesOf him, among the good and wiseOn earth, so meek, and in the skiesSo high among the blest.And had my flower a living root,Or seed wherefrom a germ might shootFor one young plant to be the fruitOf that small vital part,FairPenn-Sylvania, it should be,My friendly offering made to thee—Set, to thy father’s memory,On thy kind Quaker heart.But, ah! my precious flower is dead:The snow-white sheet beneath its head,And on its tender bosom spread,Shows that its life is o’er:And though each floweret of the gem,And every leaf, is on the stem,I cannot spare thee one of them,Because there ’ll grow no more.I therefore bid my fancy weaveThis simple wreath, which thou ’lt receiveIn lieu thereof; and thence believeMy fervent wish to beThat Heaven, to overflowing still,With purest bliss thy cup may fill,And guard thee safe from every ill,Whilst thou rememberest me!
I havea little Quaker flower,That hath a kind of spirit powerTo hold me captive, hour by hour,In pleasant musing lost;’T was plucked for me in distant land,And by another’s friendly hand,From turf where I may never stand;Then yon wild ocean crossed.
A modest foreigner it came,Bearing a sweet, but humble name;Yet worthy of a glorious fameAmong the sons of men;For O the pretty stranger grew:It drank the ether and the dew,And from light received its hueUpon the grave ofPenn!
It sprang from out that hallowed ground,Unclosed its eye, and smiled around,Upon the verdure of the mound,WhereWilliam’s ashes rest;Where low the dust in quiet liesOf him, among the good and wiseOn earth, so meek, and in the skiesSo high among the blest.
And had my flower a living root,Or seed wherefrom a germ might shootFor one young plant to be the fruitOf that small vital part,FairPenn-Sylvania, it should be,My friendly offering made to thee—Set, to thy father’s memory,On thy kind Quaker heart.
But, ah! my precious flower is dead:The snow-white sheet beneath its head,And on its tender bosom spread,Shows that its life is o’er:And though each floweret of the gem,And every leaf, is on the stem,I cannot spare thee one of them,Because there ’ll grow no more.
I therefore bid my fancy weaveThis simple wreath, which thou ’lt receiveIn lieu thereof; and thence believeMy fervent wish to beThat Heaven, to overflowing still,With purest bliss thy cup may fill,And guard thee safe from every ill,Whilst thou rememberest me!
THE HUMMING-BIRD’S ANGER.“Small as the humming-bird is, it has great courage and violent passions. If it find a flower that has been deprived of its honey, it will pluck it off, throw it on the ground, and sometimes tear it to pieces.”Buffon.Onlight little wings, as the humming-birds fly,With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky,Suspended in ether, they shine in the light,As jewels of nature, high-finished and bright.Their delicate forms are so buoyant and small,They hang o’er the flowers, as too airy to fall,Upborne on their beautiful pinions, that seemLike glittering vapor, or parts of a dream.The humming-bird feeds upon honey, and so,Of course, ’t is a sweet little creature, you know:But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say,A great deal that ’s bitter or sour to betray.And often the humming-bird’s delicate breastIs found of a very high temper possessed:Such essence of anger within it is pent,’T would burst, did no safety-valve give it a vent.Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath,Uncorked by its heat the offender to scath;And taking occasion to let off its ire,’T is startling to witness how high it will fire.A humming-bird once o’er a trumpet-flower hung,And darted that sharp little member, the tongue,At once through the tube to its cell for the sweetIt felt, at the bottom, most certain to meet.But, finding that some other child of the air,To rifle the store, had already been there,And no drop of honey for her to draw up,Her vengeance was poured on the destitute cup.She flew in a passion that heightened her power,And, cuffing and shaking the innocent flower,Its tender corolla in shred after shredShe hastily stripped, then she snapped off its head.A delicate ruin on earth as it lay,That bright little fury went humming away,With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,Like some living brilliant just dropped from the sky.And since, when that curious bird I beholdArrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite,She has in reserve, though they ’re kept out of sight.These two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,If plumeless or plumy, without or with wings,Should go to the glass, or the painter, and sitWhen anger is just at the height of its fit.
“Small as the humming-bird is, it has great courage and violent passions. If it find a flower that has been deprived of its honey, it will pluck it off, throw it on the ground, and sometimes tear it to pieces.”Buffon.
“Small as the humming-bird is, it has great courage and violent passions. If it find a flower that has been deprived of its honey, it will pluck it off, throw it on the ground, and sometimes tear it to pieces.”
Buffon.
Onlight little wings, as the humming-birds fly,With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky,Suspended in ether, they shine in the light,As jewels of nature, high-finished and bright.Their delicate forms are so buoyant and small,They hang o’er the flowers, as too airy to fall,Upborne on their beautiful pinions, that seemLike glittering vapor, or parts of a dream.The humming-bird feeds upon honey, and so,Of course, ’t is a sweet little creature, you know:But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say,A great deal that ’s bitter or sour to betray.And often the humming-bird’s delicate breastIs found of a very high temper possessed:Such essence of anger within it is pent,’T would burst, did no safety-valve give it a vent.Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath,Uncorked by its heat the offender to scath;And taking occasion to let off its ire,’T is startling to witness how high it will fire.A humming-bird once o’er a trumpet-flower hung,And darted that sharp little member, the tongue,At once through the tube to its cell for the sweetIt felt, at the bottom, most certain to meet.But, finding that some other child of the air,To rifle the store, had already been there,And no drop of honey for her to draw up,Her vengeance was poured on the destitute cup.She flew in a passion that heightened her power,And, cuffing and shaking the innocent flower,Its tender corolla in shred after shredShe hastily stripped, then she snapped off its head.A delicate ruin on earth as it lay,That bright little fury went humming away,With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,Like some living brilliant just dropped from the sky.And since, when that curious bird I beholdArrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite,She has in reserve, though they ’re kept out of sight.These two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,If plumeless or plumy, without or with wings,Should go to the glass, or the painter, and sitWhen anger is just at the height of its fit.
Onlight little wings, as the humming-birds fly,With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky,Suspended in ether, they shine in the light,As jewels of nature, high-finished and bright.
Their delicate forms are so buoyant and small,They hang o’er the flowers, as too airy to fall,Upborne on their beautiful pinions, that seemLike glittering vapor, or parts of a dream.
The humming-bird feeds upon honey, and so,Of course, ’t is a sweet little creature, you know:But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say,A great deal that ’s bitter or sour to betray.
And often the humming-bird’s delicate breastIs found of a very high temper possessed:Such essence of anger within it is pent,’T would burst, did no safety-valve give it a vent.
Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath,Uncorked by its heat the offender to scath;And taking occasion to let off its ire,’T is startling to witness how high it will fire.
A humming-bird once o’er a trumpet-flower hung,And darted that sharp little member, the tongue,At once through the tube to its cell for the sweetIt felt, at the bottom, most certain to meet.
But, finding that some other child of the air,To rifle the store, had already been there,And no drop of honey for her to draw up,Her vengeance was poured on the destitute cup.
She flew in a passion that heightened her power,And, cuffing and shaking the innocent flower,Its tender corolla in shred after shredShe hastily stripped, then she snapped off its head.
A delicate ruin on earth as it lay,That bright little fury went humming away,With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,Like some living brilliant just dropped from the sky.
And since, when that curious bird I beholdArrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite,She has in reserve, though they ’re kept out of sight.
These two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,If plumeless or plumy, without or with wings,Should go to the glass, or the painter, and sitWhen anger is just at the height of its fit.
THE SABBATH.Dayof days, the dearest, best,Hallowed by Jehovah’s rest!When his six-days’ work was done,Holy rose the seventh sun.When creation’s pillars stood,And the Lord pronounced them good,Morning stars together sang—Heaven with Sabbath praises rang.Earth in pristine beauty shone,Like a gem, before his throne,While he marked thee, as his claim—And he sealed thee with his name.Choice of God, thou blessed day!At thy dawn the grave gave wayTo the power of him within,Who had, sinless, bled for sin.Thine the radiance to illumeFirst, for man, the dismal tomb,When its bars their weakness owned,There revealing death dethroned.Then the Sun of righteousnessRose, a darkened world to bless,Bringing up from mortal night,Immortality and light.Day of glory! day of power!Sacred be thine ev’ry hour!Emblem, earnest of the restThat remaineth for the blest!When at last it shall appearHow they loved and kept thee here,To a temple in the skies,Fair, eternal, they shall rise.Not a sigh of grief or careShall mingle with their praises there;Then their sweet reward shall beAn eternity of thee.
Dayof days, the dearest, best,Hallowed by Jehovah’s rest!When his six-days’ work was done,Holy rose the seventh sun.When creation’s pillars stood,And the Lord pronounced them good,Morning stars together sang—Heaven with Sabbath praises rang.Earth in pristine beauty shone,Like a gem, before his throne,While he marked thee, as his claim—And he sealed thee with his name.Choice of God, thou blessed day!At thy dawn the grave gave wayTo the power of him within,Who had, sinless, bled for sin.Thine the radiance to illumeFirst, for man, the dismal tomb,When its bars their weakness owned,There revealing death dethroned.Then the Sun of righteousnessRose, a darkened world to bless,Bringing up from mortal night,Immortality and light.Day of glory! day of power!Sacred be thine ev’ry hour!Emblem, earnest of the restThat remaineth for the blest!When at last it shall appearHow they loved and kept thee here,To a temple in the skies,Fair, eternal, they shall rise.Not a sigh of grief or careShall mingle with their praises there;Then their sweet reward shall beAn eternity of thee.
Dayof days, the dearest, best,Hallowed by Jehovah’s rest!When his six-days’ work was done,Holy rose the seventh sun.
When creation’s pillars stood,And the Lord pronounced them good,Morning stars together sang—Heaven with Sabbath praises rang.
Earth in pristine beauty shone,Like a gem, before his throne,While he marked thee, as his claim—And he sealed thee with his name.
Choice of God, thou blessed day!At thy dawn the grave gave wayTo the power of him within,Who had, sinless, bled for sin.
Thine the radiance to illumeFirst, for man, the dismal tomb,When its bars their weakness owned,There revealing death dethroned.
Then the Sun of righteousnessRose, a darkened world to bless,Bringing up from mortal night,Immortality and light.
Day of glory! day of power!Sacred be thine ev’ry hour!Emblem, earnest of the restThat remaineth for the blest!
When at last it shall appearHow they loved and kept thee here,To a temple in the skies,Fair, eternal, they shall rise.
Not a sigh of grief or careShall mingle with their praises there;Then their sweet reward shall beAn eternity of thee.
THE DEPARTING SPIRIT.Hush!let the sigh in escaping be stopped:Be the dim chamber all silently trod!Let not the tear, that is rounded, be dropt!Oh! ’t is a spirit returning to God!Angels are softly untwining the strings,Loosing its ties to the beautiful clay;Lo! they have lifted their hovering wings:Joyous they waft her in triumph away!Sorrow not now, o’er the spiritless form,While on its features death’s lilies unfold:Break not the heart for another so warm,Stopt in its pulse by a finger so cold.Time ne’er shall whiten a lock of that hair,Silken and full, round the forehead, that shines.Age shall not come, nor the finger of care,Marking that brow with their deep-going lines.Ne’er will those lips be unsealed by the sigh:Anguish will never that bosom invade:Tears roll no more from that calm sleeping eye:Peace o’er the clay her smooth mantle has laid.Plant a young flower, in beauty to spread,Tender and pure, where the dust shall repose.Look then from earth, whence the bright spirit fled,Up, where to gladness and glory it rose.
Hush!let the sigh in escaping be stopped:Be the dim chamber all silently trod!Let not the tear, that is rounded, be dropt!Oh! ’t is a spirit returning to God!Angels are softly untwining the strings,Loosing its ties to the beautiful clay;Lo! they have lifted their hovering wings:Joyous they waft her in triumph away!Sorrow not now, o’er the spiritless form,While on its features death’s lilies unfold:Break not the heart for another so warm,Stopt in its pulse by a finger so cold.Time ne’er shall whiten a lock of that hair,Silken and full, round the forehead, that shines.Age shall not come, nor the finger of care,Marking that brow with their deep-going lines.Ne’er will those lips be unsealed by the sigh:Anguish will never that bosom invade:Tears roll no more from that calm sleeping eye:Peace o’er the clay her smooth mantle has laid.Plant a young flower, in beauty to spread,Tender and pure, where the dust shall repose.Look then from earth, whence the bright spirit fled,Up, where to gladness and glory it rose.
Hush!let the sigh in escaping be stopped:Be the dim chamber all silently trod!Let not the tear, that is rounded, be dropt!Oh! ’t is a spirit returning to God!
Angels are softly untwining the strings,Loosing its ties to the beautiful clay;Lo! they have lifted their hovering wings:Joyous they waft her in triumph away!
Sorrow not now, o’er the spiritless form,While on its features death’s lilies unfold:Break not the heart for another so warm,Stopt in its pulse by a finger so cold.
Time ne’er shall whiten a lock of that hair,Silken and full, round the forehead, that shines.Age shall not come, nor the finger of care,Marking that brow with their deep-going lines.
Ne’er will those lips be unsealed by the sigh:Anguish will never that bosom invade:Tears roll no more from that calm sleeping eye:Peace o’er the clay her smooth mantle has laid.
Plant a young flower, in beauty to spread,Tender and pure, where the dust shall repose.Look then from earth, whence the bright spirit fled,Up, where to gladness and glory it rose.
SONNET.Spare, ruthless fowler, spareThat harmless robin’s breast!Its downy vesture do not tear;But leave the life-blood circling there,Again to warm her nest;For she is hastening home with foodProvided for her callow brood.Her tender offspring see,Were now thy shot to fly,Left, as thy helpless babes would be,’Reft of their mother and of thee,To moan, and pine, and die.Then let her pass unhurt along;And she will thank thee with a song.
Spare, ruthless fowler, spareThat harmless robin’s breast!Its downy vesture do not tear;But leave the life-blood circling there,Again to warm her nest;For she is hastening home with foodProvided for her callow brood.Her tender offspring see,Were now thy shot to fly,Left, as thy helpless babes would be,’Reft of their mother and of thee,To moan, and pine, and die.Then let her pass unhurt along;And she will thank thee with a song.
Spare, ruthless fowler, spareThat harmless robin’s breast!Its downy vesture do not tear;But leave the life-blood circling there,Again to warm her nest;For she is hastening home with foodProvided for her callow brood.
Her tender offspring see,Were now thy shot to fly,Left, as thy helpless babes would be,’Reft of their mother and of thee,To moan, and pine, and die.Then let her pass unhurt along;And she will thank thee with a song.
FATHER, HEAR!Thou, whose power assumes the form,Now, of this wild wintry storm,Let it still in mercy beShown upon the raging sea!O! for him, who tosses there,Father, hear this midnight prayer!Solemn darkness shrouds the world;While, with mighty wings unfurled,Thus the winds in fury sweepO’er the land, and o’er the deep,Thou, whose thought from death can save,Guard the life that ’s on the wave!Cold and dreary is the night;Snow-clouds wrap the beacon-light;Rocks and ices, like a hostArmed for battle, bar the coast;For the coming bark appear!Guide her! save her! Father, hear!
Thou, whose power assumes the form,Now, of this wild wintry storm,Let it still in mercy beShown upon the raging sea!O! for him, who tosses there,Father, hear this midnight prayer!Solemn darkness shrouds the world;While, with mighty wings unfurled,Thus the winds in fury sweepO’er the land, and o’er the deep,Thou, whose thought from death can save,Guard the life that ’s on the wave!Cold and dreary is the night;Snow-clouds wrap the beacon-light;Rocks and ices, like a hostArmed for battle, bar the coast;For the coming bark appear!Guide her! save her! Father, hear!
Thou, whose power assumes the form,Now, of this wild wintry storm,Let it still in mercy beShown upon the raging sea!O! for him, who tosses there,Father, hear this midnight prayer!
Solemn darkness shrouds the world;While, with mighty wings unfurled,Thus the winds in fury sweepO’er the land, and o’er the deep,Thou, whose thought from death can save,Guard the life that ’s on the wave!
Cold and dreary is the night;Snow-clouds wrap the beacon-light;Rocks and ices, like a hostArmed for battle, bar the coast;For the coming bark appear!Guide her! save her! Father, hear!
THE PILGRIM’S WAY SONG.I ’mbound to the house of my Father;O draw not my feet from the way;Nor stop me these wild flowers to gather!They droop at my touch, and decay.I think of the flowers, that are bloomingIn beauty unfading above,The wings of the angels perfuming,Who fly down on errands of love.Of earth’s shallow waters the drinkingIs powerless my thirst to allay;Their taste is of tears, while we ’re sinkingBeside them, where quicksands betray.I long, from that fount ever-living,That flows by my Father’s own door,With waters so sweet and life-giving,To drink, and to thirst never more.The gold of his bright, happy dwellingMakes all lower gold to look dim;Its treasures, all treasures excelling,Shine forth to allure me to Him.The pearls of this world while I ’m treadingIn dust, where as pebbles they lie,I seek the rich pearl, that is sheddingIts lustre so pure from on high.For pains my torn spirit is feeling,No balsam from earth it receives:I go to the tree, that hath healingTo drop on my wounds from its leaves.A child that is weary with roaming,Returning in gladness to seeA home and a parent, I ’m coming—My Father, I hasten to thee!
I ’mbound to the house of my Father;O draw not my feet from the way;Nor stop me these wild flowers to gather!They droop at my touch, and decay.I think of the flowers, that are bloomingIn beauty unfading above,The wings of the angels perfuming,Who fly down on errands of love.Of earth’s shallow waters the drinkingIs powerless my thirst to allay;Their taste is of tears, while we ’re sinkingBeside them, where quicksands betray.I long, from that fount ever-living,That flows by my Father’s own door,With waters so sweet and life-giving,To drink, and to thirst never more.The gold of his bright, happy dwellingMakes all lower gold to look dim;Its treasures, all treasures excelling,Shine forth to allure me to Him.The pearls of this world while I ’m treadingIn dust, where as pebbles they lie,I seek the rich pearl, that is sheddingIts lustre so pure from on high.For pains my torn spirit is feeling,No balsam from earth it receives:I go to the tree, that hath healingTo drop on my wounds from its leaves.A child that is weary with roaming,Returning in gladness to seeA home and a parent, I ’m coming—My Father, I hasten to thee!
I ’mbound to the house of my Father;O draw not my feet from the way;Nor stop me these wild flowers to gather!They droop at my touch, and decay.I think of the flowers, that are bloomingIn beauty unfading above,The wings of the angels perfuming,Who fly down on errands of love.
Of earth’s shallow waters the drinkingIs powerless my thirst to allay;Their taste is of tears, while we ’re sinkingBeside them, where quicksands betray.I long, from that fount ever-living,That flows by my Father’s own door,With waters so sweet and life-giving,To drink, and to thirst never more.
The gold of his bright, happy dwellingMakes all lower gold to look dim;Its treasures, all treasures excelling,Shine forth to allure me to Him.The pearls of this world while I ’m treadingIn dust, where as pebbles they lie,I seek the rich pearl, that is sheddingIts lustre so pure from on high.
For pains my torn spirit is feeling,No balsam from earth it receives:I go to the tree, that hath healingTo drop on my wounds from its leaves.A child that is weary with roaming,Returning in gladness to seeA home and a parent, I ’m coming—My Father, I hasten to thee!
THE RISING MONUMENT.Risein thy solemn grandeur, calm and slow,As well befits thy purpose and thy place:Great Speaker! rise, not suddenly, to showThe earth forever sacred at thy base.Strong as the rocky frame-work of the globe,Proportioned fair, in altitude sublime,With freedom’s glory round thee as a robe,Rise gently—then defy the power of time.To future ages, from thy lofty site,Speak in thy mighty eloquence, and tellThat where thou art, on Bunker’s hallowed height,OurWarrenand his valiant brethren fell.Say, it was here the vital current flowed,Purpling the turf, amid the mortal strifeFor man’s great birthright, from the breasts, that glowedWith love of country, more than love of life.Thou hast thy growth of blood, that, gushing warmFrom patriot bosoms, set their spirits free:All, who behold, shall venerate thy form,And bow before thy genius,Liberty.Here fell the hero and his brave compeers,Who fought and died to break a people’s chain:The place is sacred to Columbia’s tears.Poured o’er the victims for a nation slain.Yet from her starry brow a glory streams,Turning to gems those holy drops of grief,As after evening showers, the morn’s clear beamsShow diamonds hung on grass, and flower and leaf.Upright and firm, as were the patriot souls,That from thy native spot arose to God,Stand thou and hold, long as our planet rolls,This last high place by Freedom’s martyrs trod.Let thy majestic shadow walk the ground,Calm as the sun, and constant as his light;And by the moon, amid the dews, be foundThe sentinel, who guards it through the night.And may the air around thee ever beTo heaven-born Liberty as vital breath;But, like the breeze that sweeps the Upas tree,To Bondage and Oppression certain death!A beauteous prospect spreads for thy survey;City and dome, and spire look up to thee:The solemn forest and the mountains grayStand distant to salute thy majesty.And ocean, in his numbers deep and strong,While the bright shore beneath thy ken he laves,Will sing to thee an everlasting songOf freedom, with his never-conquered waves.Rise then, and stand unshaken, till the skiesAbove thee are about to pass away;But, when the dead around thee are to rise,Melt in the burning splendors of the day!For then will He, “whose right it is to reign,”Who hath on earth a kingdom pure to save,Come with his angels, calling up the slainTo freedom, and annihilate the grave.
Risein thy solemn grandeur, calm and slow,As well befits thy purpose and thy place:Great Speaker! rise, not suddenly, to showThe earth forever sacred at thy base.Strong as the rocky frame-work of the globe,Proportioned fair, in altitude sublime,With freedom’s glory round thee as a robe,Rise gently—then defy the power of time.To future ages, from thy lofty site,Speak in thy mighty eloquence, and tellThat where thou art, on Bunker’s hallowed height,OurWarrenand his valiant brethren fell.Say, it was here the vital current flowed,Purpling the turf, amid the mortal strifeFor man’s great birthright, from the breasts, that glowedWith love of country, more than love of life.Thou hast thy growth of blood, that, gushing warmFrom patriot bosoms, set their spirits free:All, who behold, shall venerate thy form,And bow before thy genius,Liberty.Here fell the hero and his brave compeers,Who fought and died to break a people’s chain:The place is sacred to Columbia’s tears.Poured o’er the victims for a nation slain.Yet from her starry brow a glory streams,Turning to gems those holy drops of grief,As after evening showers, the morn’s clear beamsShow diamonds hung on grass, and flower and leaf.Upright and firm, as were the patriot souls,That from thy native spot arose to God,Stand thou and hold, long as our planet rolls,This last high place by Freedom’s martyrs trod.Let thy majestic shadow walk the ground,Calm as the sun, and constant as his light;And by the moon, amid the dews, be foundThe sentinel, who guards it through the night.And may the air around thee ever beTo heaven-born Liberty as vital breath;But, like the breeze that sweeps the Upas tree,To Bondage and Oppression certain death!A beauteous prospect spreads for thy survey;City and dome, and spire look up to thee:The solemn forest and the mountains grayStand distant to salute thy majesty.And ocean, in his numbers deep and strong,While the bright shore beneath thy ken he laves,Will sing to thee an everlasting songOf freedom, with his never-conquered waves.Rise then, and stand unshaken, till the skiesAbove thee are about to pass away;But, when the dead around thee are to rise,Melt in the burning splendors of the day!For then will He, “whose right it is to reign,”Who hath on earth a kingdom pure to save,Come with his angels, calling up the slainTo freedom, and annihilate the grave.
Risein thy solemn grandeur, calm and slow,As well befits thy purpose and thy place:Great Speaker! rise, not suddenly, to showThe earth forever sacred at thy base.
Strong as the rocky frame-work of the globe,Proportioned fair, in altitude sublime,With freedom’s glory round thee as a robe,Rise gently—then defy the power of time.
To future ages, from thy lofty site,Speak in thy mighty eloquence, and tellThat where thou art, on Bunker’s hallowed height,OurWarrenand his valiant brethren fell.
Say, it was here the vital current flowed,Purpling the turf, amid the mortal strifeFor man’s great birthright, from the breasts, that glowedWith love of country, more than love of life.
Thou hast thy growth of blood, that, gushing warmFrom patriot bosoms, set their spirits free:All, who behold, shall venerate thy form,And bow before thy genius,Liberty.
Here fell the hero and his brave compeers,Who fought and died to break a people’s chain:The place is sacred to Columbia’s tears.Poured o’er the victims for a nation slain.
Yet from her starry brow a glory streams,Turning to gems those holy drops of grief,As after evening showers, the morn’s clear beamsShow diamonds hung on grass, and flower and leaf.
Upright and firm, as were the patriot souls,That from thy native spot arose to God,Stand thou and hold, long as our planet rolls,This last high place by Freedom’s martyrs trod.
Let thy majestic shadow walk the ground,Calm as the sun, and constant as his light;And by the moon, amid the dews, be foundThe sentinel, who guards it through the night.
And may the air around thee ever beTo heaven-born Liberty as vital breath;But, like the breeze that sweeps the Upas tree,To Bondage and Oppression certain death!
A beauteous prospect spreads for thy survey;City and dome, and spire look up to thee:The solemn forest and the mountains grayStand distant to salute thy majesty.
And ocean, in his numbers deep and strong,While the bright shore beneath thy ken he laves,Will sing to thee an everlasting songOf freedom, with his never-conquered waves.
Rise then, and stand unshaken, till the skiesAbove thee are about to pass away;But, when the dead around thee are to rise,Melt in the burning splendors of the day!
For then will He, “whose right it is to reign,”Who hath on earth a kingdom pure to save,Come with his angels, calling up the slainTo freedom, and annihilate the grave.
A NAME IN THE SAND.AloneI walked the ocean strand;A pearly shell was in my hand:I stooped, and wrote upon the sandMy name—the year—the day.As onward from the spot I passed,One lingering look behind I cast:A wave came rolling high and fast,And washed my lines away.And so, methought, ’t will shortly beWith every mark on earth from me;A wave of dark oblivion’s seaWill sweep across the place,Where I have trod the sandy shoreOf time, and been to be no more,Of me—my day—the name I bore,To leave nor track, nor trace.And yet, with Him, who counts the sands,And holds the waters in his hands,I know a lasting record stands,Inscribed against my name,Of all, this mortal part has wrought;Of all, this thinking soul has thought;And from these fleeting moments caughtFor glory, or for shame.
AloneI walked the ocean strand;A pearly shell was in my hand:I stooped, and wrote upon the sandMy name—the year—the day.As onward from the spot I passed,One lingering look behind I cast:A wave came rolling high and fast,And washed my lines away.And so, methought, ’t will shortly beWith every mark on earth from me;A wave of dark oblivion’s seaWill sweep across the place,Where I have trod the sandy shoreOf time, and been to be no more,Of me—my day—the name I bore,To leave nor track, nor trace.And yet, with Him, who counts the sands,And holds the waters in his hands,I know a lasting record stands,Inscribed against my name,Of all, this mortal part has wrought;Of all, this thinking soul has thought;And from these fleeting moments caughtFor glory, or for shame.
AloneI walked the ocean strand;A pearly shell was in my hand:I stooped, and wrote upon the sandMy name—the year—the day.As onward from the spot I passed,One lingering look behind I cast:A wave came rolling high and fast,And washed my lines away.
And so, methought, ’t will shortly beWith every mark on earth from me;A wave of dark oblivion’s seaWill sweep across the place,Where I have trod the sandy shoreOf time, and been to be no more,Of me—my day—the name I bore,To leave nor track, nor trace.
And yet, with Him, who counts the sands,And holds the waters in his hands,I know a lasting record stands,Inscribed against my name,Of all, this mortal part has wrought;Of all, this thinking soul has thought;And from these fleeting moments caughtFor glory, or for shame.
THE CHILD OF A YEAR AND A DAY.Togrief the night-hours keeping,A mournful mother layUpon her pillow, weeping—Her babe had passed away.When she had clasped her treasureA year and yet a day,Of time ’t was all its measure—’T was gone, like morning’s ray!The jewel, Heaven had shown her,Of worth surpassing gold,Was lent her, by its Owner—’T was never earth’s to hold.Then, fondly hovering o’er her,A bright young angel hung;And warm the love it bore her,And sweet the song it sung:“O mother, why this weeping?Let all thy sorrow cease:My infant form is sleeping,Where nought can break its peace.“And he, who once was blessingSuch little children here,My spirit now possessing,Will hold me ever dear.“I never knew the dreadingOf death’s all-conquering blow;My mortal raiment shedding,I rose above the foe.“Where sickness cannot pain me—Where comes nor grief nor night—Where sin shall never stain me,I dwell, a child of light.“While many a pilgrim hoaryTreads long earth’s weary way,I have eternal gloryFor one short year and day.”Yet that sweet angel singingIts mother could not hear,For grief her heart was wringing—She ’d but a mortal ear.She could not see the beamingOf his celestial crown;For fast her tears were streaming;Her soul to dust bowed down.A voice from heaven then fallingIn soothing tones to her,As of a Father, calling,Revealed the Comforter.And, lifting up her lowlyAnd sorrow-laden eye,She saw the King all holyUpon the throne Most High.Where shining hosts were pouringTheir praises forth to Him,She saw her child adoring,Amid the Seraphim.
Togrief the night-hours keeping,A mournful mother layUpon her pillow, weeping—Her babe had passed away.When she had clasped her treasureA year and yet a day,Of time ’t was all its measure—’T was gone, like morning’s ray!The jewel, Heaven had shown her,Of worth surpassing gold,Was lent her, by its Owner—’T was never earth’s to hold.Then, fondly hovering o’er her,A bright young angel hung;And warm the love it bore her,And sweet the song it sung:“O mother, why this weeping?Let all thy sorrow cease:My infant form is sleeping,Where nought can break its peace.“And he, who once was blessingSuch little children here,My spirit now possessing,Will hold me ever dear.“I never knew the dreadingOf death’s all-conquering blow;My mortal raiment shedding,I rose above the foe.“Where sickness cannot pain me—Where comes nor grief nor night—Where sin shall never stain me,I dwell, a child of light.“While many a pilgrim hoaryTreads long earth’s weary way,I have eternal gloryFor one short year and day.”Yet that sweet angel singingIts mother could not hear,For grief her heart was wringing—She ’d but a mortal ear.She could not see the beamingOf his celestial crown;For fast her tears were streaming;Her soul to dust bowed down.A voice from heaven then fallingIn soothing tones to her,As of a Father, calling,Revealed the Comforter.And, lifting up her lowlyAnd sorrow-laden eye,She saw the King all holyUpon the throne Most High.Where shining hosts were pouringTheir praises forth to Him,She saw her child adoring,Amid the Seraphim.
Togrief the night-hours keeping,A mournful mother layUpon her pillow, weeping—Her babe had passed away.
When she had clasped her treasureA year and yet a day,Of time ’t was all its measure—’T was gone, like morning’s ray!
The jewel, Heaven had shown her,Of worth surpassing gold,Was lent her, by its Owner—’T was never earth’s to hold.
Then, fondly hovering o’er her,A bright young angel hung;And warm the love it bore her,And sweet the song it sung:
“O mother, why this weeping?Let all thy sorrow cease:My infant form is sleeping,Where nought can break its peace.
“And he, who once was blessingSuch little children here,My spirit now possessing,Will hold me ever dear.
“I never knew the dreadingOf death’s all-conquering blow;My mortal raiment shedding,I rose above the foe.
“Where sickness cannot pain me—Where comes nor grief nor night—Where sin shall never stain me,I dwell, a child of light.
“While many a pilgrim hoaryTreads long earth’s weary way,I have eternal gloryFor one short year and day.”
Yet that sweet angel singingIts mother could not hear,For grief her heart was wringing—She ’d but a mortal ear.
She could not see the beamingOf his celestial crown;For fast her tears were streaming;Her soul to dust bowed down.
A voice from heaven then fallingIn soothing tones to her,As of a Father, calling,Revealed the Comforter.
And, lifting up her lowlyAnd sorrow-laden eye,She saw the King all holyUpon the throne Most High.
Where shining hosts were pouringTheir praises forth to Him,She saw her child adoring,Amid the Seraphim.
THE BELIEVER’S MOUNTAINS.Notto the mount, where fire and smokeJehovah’s face concealed,When loud to wandering man he spoke,To make his law revealed—Not to the awful splendor thereCan turn my fearful eye:To hear its thunderings, and to dareIts lightnings, were to die.Not on the mount where Moses stood,The promised land to seeAcross the waves of Jordan’s flood,Is yet the place for me.My spirit could not bear to takeThat fair and glorious view,Nor dare her wondrous launch to make,To try the waters through.Not to the mount where Christ appearedAt once so heavenly bright;While they, who heard the Father, feared,And fell before the light—Not there, my Saviour ever nigh,Do I his footsteps trace:His closer followers far, than I,Attain that higher place.But, to the mount without a name,Where Jesus sat and taught,I daily would assert my claim,To share the bread he brought.His words before that multitudeDropt to his chosen few,Are manna for my morning food,My soul’s sweet evening dew.If to Temptation’s mount I go,That mountexceeding high,My Lord, again rebuke our foe,And bid the tempter fly.No kingdom may I seek, but thine;And let my glory beA light, reflected pure from thine—My portion, life with thee!Oft to the mount of midnight shade,Of solitude and prayer,Ascend, my soul, be not afraidThy Guide to follow there.The height and stillness of the scene,When thou that path hast trod,Forbids this world to rush betweenA spirit and her God.The mount whereon my Saviour stood,And o’er the city wept—Where fell his wo-wrung drops of blood,While his disciples slept—There may I go, yet not to sleepTill Jesus be betrayed;But, as he went, to pray and weepO’er sufferings sin hath made.And to the solemn, shuddering mount,Where Christ received the cupOf death, to offer us a fountOf life, must I go up.And I must look upon his wo,On that empurpled tree,To learn how vast a debt I owe,By what he paid for me.Thence to the mount of GalileeMay I the way pursue,With joy my risen Lord to see,Ere he ascends from view.For lo! the heavens their gates unfoldTo take their coming King:His angels harp on strings of gold,And “Hallelujah!” sing.Now on Mount Zion may I seekMy shield—my strong, high tower;And thence, though here so dark and weak,Be clothed with light and power.Then at that holy mountain’s top,My soul, no more to roam,Unfurl thy wings—thine ashes drop;And gain thy glorious home.
Notto the mount, where fire and smokeJehovah’s face concealed,When loud to wandering man he spoke,To make his law revealed—Not to the awful splendor thereCan turn my fearful eye:To hear its thunderings, and to dareIts lightnings, were to die.Not on the mount where Moses stood,The promised land to seeAcross the waves of Jordan’s flood,Is yet the place for me.My spirit could not bear to takeThat fair and glorious view,Nor dare her wondrous launch to make,To try the waters through.Not to the mount where Christ appearedAt once so heavenly bright;While they, who heard the Father, feared,And fell before the light—Not there, my Saviour ever nigh,Do I his footsteps trace:His closer followers far, than I,Attain that higher place.But, to the mount without a name,Where Jesus sat and taught,I daily would assert my claim,To share the bread he brought.His words before that multitudeDropt to his chosen few,Are manna for my morning food,My soul’s sweet evening dew.If to Temptation’s mount I go,That mountexceeding high,My Lord, again rebuke our foe,And bid the tempter fly.No kingdom may I seek, but thine;And let my glory beA light, reflected pure from thine—My portion, life with thee!Oft to the mount of midnight shade,Of solitude and prayer,Ascend, my soul, be not afraidThy Guide to follow there.The height and stillness of the scene,When thou that path hast trod,Forbids this world to rush betweenA spirit and her God.The mount whereon my Saviour stood,And o’er the city wept—Where fell his wo-wrung drops of blood,While his disciples slept—There may I go, yet not to sleepTill Jesus be betrayed;But, as he went, to pray and weepO’er sufferings sin hath made.And to the solemn, shuddering mount,Where Christ received the cupOf death, to offer us a fountOf life, must I go up.And I must look upon his wo,On that empurpled tree,To learn how vast a debt I owe,By what he paid for me.Thence to the mount of GalileeMay I the way pursue,With joy my risen Lord to see,Ere he ascends from view.For lo! the heavens their gates unfoldTo take their coming King:His angels harp on strings of gold,And “Hallelujah!” sing.Now on Mount Zion may I seekMy shield—my strong, high tower;And thence, though here so dark and weak,Be clothed with light and power.Then at that holy mountain’s top,My soul, no more to roam,Unfurl thy wings—thine ashes drop;And gain thy glorious home.
Notto the mount, where fire and smokeJehovah’s face concealed,When loud to wandering man he spoke,To make his law revealed—Not to the awful splendor thereCan turn my fearful eye:To hear its thunderings, and to dareIts lightnings, were to die.
Not on the mount where Moses stood,The promised land to seeAcross the waves of Jordan’s flood,Is yet the place for me.My spirit could not bear to takeThat fair and glorious view,Nor dare her wondrous launch to make,To try the waters through.
Not to the mount where Christ appearedAt once so heavenly bright;While they, who heard the Father, feared,And fell before the light—Not there, my Saviour ever nigh,Do I his footsteps trace:His closer followers far, than I,Attain that higher place.
But, to the mount without a name,Where Jesus sat and taught,I daily would assert my claim,To share the bread he brought.His words before that multitudeDropt to his chosen few,Are manna for my morning food,My soul’s sweet evening dew.
If to Temptation’s mount I go,That mountexceeding high,My Lord, again rebuke our foe,And bid the tempter fly.No kingdom may I seek, but thine;And let my glory beA light, reflected pure from thine—My portion, life with thee!
Oft to the mount of midnight shade,Of solitude and prayer,Ascend, my soul, be not afraidThy Guide to follow there.The height and stillness of the scene,When thou that path hast trod,Forbids this world to rush betweenA spirit and her God.
The mount whereon my Saviour stood,And o’er the city wept—Where fell his wo-wrung drops of blood,While his disciples slept—There may I go, yet not to sleepTill Jesus be betrayed;But, as he went, to pray and weepO’er sufferings sin hath made.
And to the solemn, shuddering mount,Where Christ received the cupOf death, to offer us a fountOf life, must I go up.And I must look upon his wo,On that empurpled tree,To learn how vast a debt I owe,By what he paid for me.
Thence to the mount of GalileeMay I the way pursue,With joy my risen Lord to see,Ere he ascends from view.For lo! the heavens their gates unfoldTo take their coming King:His angels harp on strings of gold,And “Hallelujah!” sing.
Now on Mount Zion may I seekMy shield—my strong, high tower;And thence, though here so dark and weak,Be clothed with light and power.Then at that holy mountain’s top,My soul, no more to roam,Unfurl thy wings—thine ashes drop;And gain thy glorious home.
THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING.A solemnnight is o’er Jerusalem;Nature astonished, shrouds herself in gloom;For he, who was the babe of Bethlehem,Is now a victim slain, and in the tomb!The blood, which started with the agonyThat in the garden forced his swelling veins,In crimson streams has poured on Calvary;A rocky cavern holds his pale remains.He walked with men, serene in holiness,The meek, the merciful, through taunts and strife;The front of pride he met with lowliness,And bowed to death to lift his foes to life.Fast as their sins grew bold and multiplied,His bitter cup was filling to the brim.Here doth he lie, the pale, the crucified,With damps and shadows gathered over him.The dismal night moves on but heavily,While they, who came the sepulchre to keepWith bristling spears, the Roman soldiery,Would fain resign their glittering arms for sleep.Yet they must wake or die; the sentinelMust keep his constant vigils round the spotWhere he shall find the watch of Israel:The life, the spirit moves, and heeds him not.Within the grave, that power victoriousO’er death and darkness, far from mortal sight,Hath wrought the body bright and gloriousFor resurrection by the morning light.And lo! the shades of night are vanishing;The guard behold, as comes the dawning day,Her dubious gloom and dimness banishing,The stone that barred the tomb is rolled away.But, where ’s the form that in the drapery,Which wraps the dead, lay, spiritless and cold,Within the vault so still and shadowy,That, as a prison-guard, they came to hold?That form is gone; its cast-off covering,The sad habiliments of death, are here,With burial odors round them hovering,And white-robed angels calmly sitting near.But, see the garden, fair and flowering,Where new-born lilies worship from their stalks;And boughs with blossoms bend, emboweringThe dewy pathway! there the Saviour walks.The guilty city still is slumbering,While he is risen from the broken tomb;As one his vines and fruit trees numbering,He breathes the incense of their opening bloom.The moon, now fading in the occident,Is not so mild, so heavenly fair as he.The sun, just rising in the orient,Hath less of glory than in him we see.Nature, that, for his death and burial,Hath put on darkness, as a mourning weed,Arrayed in light as for a festival,Proclaims afar, “The Lord is risen indeed!”
A solemnnight is o’er Jerusalem;Nature astonished, shrouds herself in gloom;For he, who was the babe of Bethlehem,Is now a victim slain, and in the tomb!The blood, which started with the agonyThat in the garden forced his swelling veins,In crimson streams has poured on Calvary;A rocky cavern holds his pale remains.He walked with men, serene in holiness,The meek, the merciful, through taunts and strife;The front of pride he met with lowliness,And bowed to death to lift his foes to life.Fast as their sins grew bold and multiplied,His bitter cup was filling to the brim.Here doth he lie, the pale, the crucified,With damps and shadows gathered over him.The dismal night moves on but heavily,While they, who came the sepulchre to keepWith bristling spears, the Roman soldiery,Would fain resign their glittering arms for sleep.Yet they must wake or die; the sentinelMust keep his constant vigils round the spotWhere he shall find the watch of Israel:The life, the spirit moves, and heeds him not.Within the grave, that power victoriousO’er death and darkness, far from mortal sight,Hath wrought the body bright and gloriousFor resurrection by the morning light.And lo! the shades of night are vanishing;The guard behold, as comes the dawning day,Her dubious gloom and dimness banishing,The stone that barred the tomb is rolled away.But, where ’s the form that in the drapery,Which wraps the dead, lay, spiritless and cold,Within the vault so still and shadowy,That, as a prison-guard, they came to hold?That form is gone; its cast-off covering,The sad habiliments of death, are here,With burial odors round them hovering,And white-robed angels calmly sitting near.But, see the garden, fair and flowering,Where new-born lilies worship from their stalks;And boughs with blossoms bend, emboweringThe dewy pathway! there the Saviour walks.The guilty city still is slumbering,While he is risen from the broken tomb;As one his vines and fruit trees numbering,He breathes the incense of their opening bloom.The moon, now fading in the occident,Is not so mild, so heavenly fair as he.The sun, just rising in the orient,Hath less of glory than in him we see.Nature, that, for his death and burial,Hath put on darkness, as a mourning weed,Arrayed in light as for a festival,Proclaims afar, “The Lord is risen indeed!”
A solemnnight is o’er Jerusalem;Nature astonished, shrouds herself in gloom;For he, who was the babe of Bethlehem,Is now a victim slain, and in the tomb!
The blood, which started with the agonyThat in the garden forced his swelling veins,In crimson streams has poured on Calvary;A rocky cavern holds his pale remains.
He walked with men, serene in holiness,The meek, the merciful, through taunts and strife;The front of pride he met with lowliness,And bowed to death to lift his foes to life.
Fast as their sins grew bold and multiplied,His bitter cup was filling to the brim.Here doth he lie, the pale, the crucified,With damps and shadows gathered over him.
The dismal night moves on but heavily,While they, who came the sepulchre to keepWith bristling spears, the Roman soldiery,Would fain resign their glittering arms for sleep.
Yet they must wake or die; the sentinelMust keep his constant vigils round the spotWhere he shall find the watch of Israel:The life, the spirit moves, and heeds him not.
Within the grave, that power victoriousO’er death and darkness, far from mortal sight,Hath wrought the body bright and gloriousFor resurrection by the morning light.
And lo! the shades of night are vanishing;The guard behold, as comes the dawning day,Her dubious gloom and dimness banishing,The stone that barred the tomb is rolled away.
But, where ’s the form that in the drapery,Which wraps the dead, lay, spiritless and cold,Within the vault so still and shadowy,That, as a prison-guard, they came to hold?
That form is gone; its cast-off covering,The sad habiliments of death, are here,With burial odors round them hovering,And white-robed angels calmly sitting near.
But, see the garden, fair and flowering,Where new-born lilies worship from their stalks;And boughs with blossoms bend, emboweringThe dewy pathway! there the Saviour walks.
The guilty city still is slumbering,While he is risen from the broken tomb;As one his vines and fruit trees numbering,He breathes the incense of their opening bloom.
The moon, now fading in the occident,Is not so mild, so heavenly fair as he.The sun, just rising in the orient,Hath less of glory than in him we see.
Nature, that, for his death and burial,Hath put on darkness, as a mourning weed,Arrayed in light as for a festival,Proclaims afar, “The Lord is risen indeed!”
I SHALL BE SATISFIED.“I shall be satisfied when I awake in thy likeness.”MayI in thy likeness, my Saviour, awake,And rise, a fair image of thee;Then I shall be satisfied, when I can breakThis prison of clay, and be free.Can I but come forth to eternity’s light,With thy perfect features to shine,In raiment unsullied from time’s dreary night,What honor and joy will be mine!Yes, I shall be satisfied then to have castThe shadows of nature all by—When, darkness and dust from the dull eyelid past,My soul sees with full-opened eye.How fain would I know the great morn drawing near,When earth’s dreamy visions shall fade,If I in thy semblance indeed may appear,And stand in thy beauty arrayed!To see thee in glory, O Lord, as thou art,From this mortal, perishing clayMy spirit immortal, in peace would depart,And, joyous, mount up her bright way.When on thine own image in me thou hast smiled,In thy holy mansion, and whenThy fatherly arms have encircled thy child,O I shall be satisfied then!
“I shall be satisfied when I awake in thy likeness.”
MayI in thy likeness, my Saviour, awake,And rise, a fair image of thee;Then I shall be satisfied, when I can breakThis prison of clay, and be free.Can I but come forth to eternity’s light,With thy perfect features to shine,In raiment unsullied from time’s dreary night,What honor and joy will be mine!Yes, I shall be satisfied then to have castThe shadows of nature all by—When, darkness and dust from the dull eyelid past,My soul sees with full-opened eye.How fain would I know the great morn drawing near,When earth’s dreamy visions shall fade,If I in thy semblance indeed may appear,And stand in thy beauty arrayed!To see thee in glory, O Lord, as thou art,From this mortal, perishing clayMy spirit immortal, in peace would depart,And, joyous, mount up her bright way.When on thine own image in me thou hast smiled,In thy holy mansion, and whenThy fatherly arms have encircled thy child,O I shall be satisfied then!
MayI in thy likeness, my Saviour, awake,And rise, a fair image of thee;Then I shall be satisfied, when I can breakThis prison of clay, and be free.
Can I but come forth to eternity’s light,With thy perfect features to shine,In raiment unsullied from time’s dreary night,What honor and joy will be mine!
Yes, I shall be satisfied then to have castThe shadows of nature all by—When, darkness and dust from the dull eyelid past,My soul sees with full-opened eye.
How fain would I know the great morn drawing near,When earth’s dreamy visions shall fade,If I in thy semblance indeed may appear,And stand in thy beauty arrayed!
To see thee in glory, O Lord, as thou art,From this mortal, perishing clayMy spirit immortal, in peace would depart,And, joyous, mount up her bright way.
When on thine own image in me thou hast smiled,In thy holy mansion, and whenThy fatherly arms have encircled thy child,O I shall be satisfied then!
THE PENITENTIAL TEAR.Thoutrembling, pure, and holy thing!What skill from ocean’s depths can bring,Or toil from out the mine—What monarch in his diadem,Or glittering garb, produce a gem,Whose brightness equals thine?Thy source is deeper than the cavesOf riven rock, or opening waves,Invisible as air:And, though the angel throng aboveBehold thee with delight and love,They ne’er can have thee there.Nor change, nor age thy sheen can dim;Thou ’rt now unstained as when with him,Who dared, in olden time,Thrice his dear, suffering Lord deny;Then, melted at the Saviour’s eye,And paid thee for his crime.Called from the treasures of the soulBy power divine, when thou dost rollForth from the mourner’s eye,Thy wearer thou dost then proclaimThe heir of life, who has his nameWrit in the Book on high.Thou art a pearl, that all may own,And when thy matchless worth is knownTo those, who wear thee here,They will be changed, and shall beholdThe shining gates of heaven unfold,Bright Penitential Tear!
Thoutrembling, pure, and holy thing!What skill from ocean’s depths can bring,Or toil from out the mine—What monarch in his diadem,Or glittering garb, produce a gem,Whose brightness equals thine?Thy source is deeper than the cavesOf riven rock, or opening waves,Invisible as air:And, though the angel throng aboveBehold thee with delight and love,They ne’er can have thee there.Nor change, nor age thy sheen can dim;Thou ’rt now unstained as when with him,Who dared, in olden time,Thrice his dear, suffering Lord deny;Then, melted at the Saviour’s eye,And paid thee for his crime.Called from the treasures of the soulBy power divine, when thou dost rollForth from the mourner’s eye,Thy wearer thou dost then proclaimThe heir of life, who has his nameWrit in the Book on high.Thou art a pearl, that all may own,And when thy matchless worth is knownTo those, who wear thee here,They will be changed, and shall beholdThe shining gates of heaven unfold,Bright Penitential Tear!
Thoutrembling, pure, and holy thing!What skill from ocean’s depths can bring,Or toil from out the mine—What monarch in his diadem,Or glittering garb, produce a gem,Whose brightness equals thine?
Thy source is deeper than the cavesOf riven rock, or opening waves,Invisible as air:And, though the angel throng aboveBehold thee with delight and love,They ne’er can have thee there.
Nor change, nor age thy sheen can dim;Thou ’rt now unstained as when with him,Who dared, in olden time,Thrice his dear, suffering Lord deny;Then, melted at the Saviour’s eye,And paid thee for his crime.
Called from the treasures of the soulBy power divine, when thou dost rollForth from the mourner’s eye,Thy wearer thou dost then proclaimThe heir of life, who has his nameWrit in the Book on high.
Thou art a pearl, that all may own,And when thy matchless worth is knownTo those, who wear thee here,They will be changed, and shall beholdThe shining gates of heaven unfold,Bright Penitential Tear!
TEACHINGS OF GOD.Hereigns on high, a glorious King,In ocean, earth, and air;He moves and governs every thing,For God is every where.The waters at his bidding flow,The mountain and its flowerTheir majesty and beauty show,As traces of his power.The lilies by the meadow rillsAre leaning on his hand;And so the cedar of the hills,The palm and olive stand.He formed the birds, that sport alongOn light and brilliant wing;And tuned them with the voice of songAnd joy his praise to sing.This earth is ours, so rich and fairFrom him, who made it thus—Who sends his angels down with careTo minister to us.The rainbow, with its beauteous dies,A pledge to man, is lentBy him, who spreads the shining skiesAround him, “as a tent.”The heavens, my child, are full of him!Yon radiant sun aboveIs but an image, cold and dim,Of his great power and love.He placed that glorious orb on high,In splendor there to roll,To warm the world, to light the eye;He lights and warms the soul.And lest the night with sable shadeThat azure vault should mar,He moved his finger there, and made,At every touch, a star.With these the moon, his beaming gift,Here lets her lustre fall,Our thoughts to win, our hearts to liftTo him, who gave them all.And he is ours—that Holy One,Our Father, Guide, and Friend;In ways untravelled by the sun,In love that ne’er shall end.’T is sweet to worship him below,With his approving eyeTo mark the way, our spirits goTo seek his face on high.
Hereigns on high, a glorious King,In ocean, earth, and air;He moves and governs every thing,For God is every where.The waters at his bidding flow,The mountain and its flowerTheir majesty and beauty show,As traces of his power.The lilies by the meadow rillsAre leaning on his hand;And so the cedar of the hills,The palm and olive stand.He formed the birds, that sport alongOn light and brilliant wing;And tuned them with the voice of songAnd joy his praise to sing.This earth is ours, so rich and fairFrom him, who made it thus—Who sends his angels down with careTo minister to us.The rainbow, with its beauteous dies,A pledge to man, is lentBy him, who spreads the shining skiesAround him, “as a tent.”The heavens, my child, are full of him!Yon radiant sun aboveIs but an image, cold and dim,Of his great power and love.He placed that glorious orb on high,In splendor there to roll,To warm the world, to light the eye;He lights and warms the soul.And lest the night with sable shadeThat azure vault should mar,He moved his finger there, and made,At every touch, a star.With these the moon, his beaming gift,Here lets her lustre fall,Our thoughts to win, our hearts to liftTo him, who gave them all.And he is ours—that Holy One,Our Father, Guide, and Friend;In ways untravelled by the sun,In love that ne’er shall end.’T is sweet to worship him below,With his approving eyeTo mark the way, our spirits goTo seek his face on high.
Hereigns on high, a glorious King,In ocean, earth, and air;He moves and governs every thing,For God is every where.
The waters at his bidding flow,The mountain and its flowerTheir majesty and beauty show,As traces of his power.
The lilies by the meadow rillsAre leaning on his hand;And so the cedar of the hills,The palm and olive stand.
He formed the birds, that sport alongOn light and brilliant wing;And tuned them with the voice of songAnd joy his praise to sing.
This earth is ours, so rich and fairFrom him, who made it thus—Who sends his angels down with careTo minister to us.
The rainbow, with its beauteous dies,A pledge to man, is lentBy him, who spreads the shining skiesAround him, “as a tent.”
The heavens, my child, are full of him!Yon radiant sun aboveIs but an image, cold and dim,Of his great power and love.
He placed that glorious orb on high,In splendor there to roll,To warm the world, to light the eye;He lights and warms the soul.
And lest the night with sable shadeThat azure vault should mar,He moved his finger there, and made,At every touch, a star.
With these the moon, his beaming gift,Here lets her lustre fall,Our thoughts to win, our hearts to liftTo him, who gave them all.
And he is ours—that Holy One,Our Father, Guide, and Friend;In ways untravelled by the sun,In love that ne’er shall end.
’T is sweet to worship him below,With his approving eyeTo mark the way, our spirits goTo seek his face on high.
THE HERALD’S CRY IN THE DESERT.“He was not that Light; but was sent to bear witness of that Light.”St. Johni. 8.Awake, O ye nations, and, shakingThe slumber of death from your eyes,Behold the fair morn in its breaking,TheSunof all glory arise.He comes, mist and dimness dispelling;The shadows and clouds flee away:Ho! all, that in darkness are dwelling,Spring up, and rejoice in the day!Ye dying, life’s waters revealing,He ’ll show you to fountain and streams:Ye wounded, for you he brings healing;Come out and repose in his beams.Come, all ye disconsolate, hailingYour King in his beauty and might;His raiment mount Ebal is veiling;Mount Gerizim shines with his light.O praise him, ye weary, in wonderTo feel your hard burdens unbound!Ye captives, your bars fall asunder;With shoutings leap forth at the sound.Your names on his breastplate he ’s wearing;They ’re set as the seal of his ring;Ye nations, your highways preparing,Receive, and be glad in your King!
“He was not that Light; but was sent to bear witness of that Light.”St. Johni. 8.
“He was not that Light; but was sent to bear witness of that Light.”St. Johni. 8.
“He was not that Light; but was sent to bear witness of that Light.”
St. Johni. 8.
Awake, O ye nations, and, shakingThe slumber of death from your eyes,Behold the fair morn in its breaking,TheSunof all glory arise.He comes, mist and dimness dispelling;The shadows and clouds flee away:Ho! all, that in darkness are dwelling,Spring up, and rejoice in the day!Ye dying, life’s waters revealing,He ’ll show you to fountain and streams:Ye wounded, for you he brings healing;Come out and repose in his beams.Come, all ye disconsolate, hailingYour King in his beauty and might;His raiment mount Ebal is veiling;Mount Gerizim shines with his light.O praise him, ye weary, in wonderTo feel your hard burdens unbound!Ye captives, your bars fall asunder;With shoutings leap forth at the sound.Your names on his breastplate he ’s wearing;They ’re set as the seal of his ring;Ye nations, your highways preparing,Receive, and be glad in your King!
Awake, O ye nations, and, shakingThe slumber of death from your eyes,Behold the fair morn in its breaking,TheSunof all glory arise.He comes, mist and dimness dispelling;The shadows and clouds flee away:Ho! all, that in darkness are dwelling,Spring up, and rejoice in the day!Ye dying, life’s waters revealing,He ’ll show you to fountain and streams:Ye wounded, for you he brings healing;Come out and repose in his beams.Come, all ye disconsolate, hailingYour King in his beauty and might;His raiment mount Ebal is veiling;Mount Gerizim shines with his light.O praise him, ye weary, in wonderTo feel your hard burdens unbound!Ye captives, your bars fall asunder;With shoutings leap forth at the sound.Your names on his breastplate he ’s wearing;They ’re set as the seal of his ring;Ye nations, your highways preparing,Receive, and be glad in your King!
Awake, O ye nations, and, shakingThe slumber of death from your eyes,Behold the fair morn in its breaking,TheSunof all glory arise.
He comes, mist and dimness dispelling;The shadows and clouds flee away:Ho! all, that in darkness are dwelling,Spring up, and rejoice in the day!
Ye dying, life’s waters revealing,He ’ll show you to fountain and streams:Ye wounded, for you he brings healing;Come out and repose in his beams.
Come, all ye disconsolate, hailingYour King in his beauty and might;His raiment mount Ebal is veiling;Mount Gerizim shines with his light.
O praise him, ye weary, in wonderTo feel your hard burdens unbound!Ye captives, your bars fall asunder;With shoutings leap forth at the sound.
Your names on his breastplate he ’s wearing;They ’re set as the seal of his ring;Ye nations, your highways preparing,Receive, and be glad in your King!