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The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But, alas! recollection, at hand,

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There is mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.


O, THOU! Whom eye hath seen not-nor shall see; Whose way is in the deep!-whose steps unknown; Enshrined, thyself, in clouds of mystery,

Yet darting beams of heavenly brightness down!Thou art my God! and prostrate at thy throne, And firm in faith, and strengthen'd in thy power, I yield my all :-O God! accept thine own, From the frail heart that seeks to know no more Than that thou liv'st and reign'st-to tremble and adore!

O! let my soul, content to worship Thee,

Each daring thought, each prouder wish resign,

Till thine own voice shall set the spirit free,
And mortal knowledge ripen to divine!
Perhaps (forgive that daring hope of mine)
Thine eye of grace the humbler prayer may view,
And bid thy heavenly light more brightly shine
On those who, panting for its beams, yet knew
To wait in patient hope-till death the veil undrew!

O! not on doubt's interminable main

Let my frail bark by varying winds be cross'd; Where human aid, alas! but shows in vain,

To the wreck'd wretch, the port for ever lost! Who shall assuage thy griefs, "thou tempesttoss'd!"

And speak of comfort, "Comfortless!" to thee?

Who but the Power that knows thy weakness most? And in his own good time can set thee free, Spreading the oil of Peace o'er thy tumultuous sea!

And let not him who never felt a fear,

Safe in his pride of heart, thy woes deride: Perhaps that scornful eye or brow severe

Hath thoughts less hallow'd than thine own to hide. Even the dark days of doubt have purified Thy chasten'd soul from many an earthly stain, And driven afar the demon power of Pride,

That once had mark'd thee in his menial train, But now hath lost his slave, and spreads his lures in vain!

Poor child of darkness! happier in thy tears

Happier than they that mock them as they flow; With all thy doubts, thy weakness, and thy fears, Thy heart hath learn'd this simple truth to know,—

That not to man, whose dwelling is below, Whose brother is the worm, whose bed the dustPartner with thee in want, and guilt, and wo,— Doth God the records of thy deeds intrust; But He alone is Judge-whose law alone is just. Father of light! whose loveliest name is Love! Whose throne the contrite seek, the guilty fly,Thou art my God: around, beneath, above, I see no frowns—no terror in thine eye! All breathes of that pervading harmony Which draws from present ill the future good; All points our spirits to that peaceful sky, Where, banish'd far, nor sorrow's wayward mood, Nor fancy's evil train, nor real ills intrude!

But who shall know Thee, and be known of Thee, When thou, Great Shepherd! call'st us to thy fold? And who shall taste thy glorious liberty,

And, "face to face," thine awful form behold? O, God! O, Father! mould our spirits-mould To thine each purpose of the obedient heart; Shake off the mists that now our eyes infold; Let every fear but fear of thee depart;

And let us see thy face and know thee as THOU ART!


I LOVE the organ's joyous swell,
Sweet echo of the heavenly ode;
I love the cheerful village bell,

Faint emblem of the call of God;
Waked by the sound, I bend my feet,
I bid my swelling sorrows cease;

I do but touch the mercy-seat,

And hear the "still small voice" of peace.

And as the ray of evening fades,
I love amidst the dead to stand,
Where, in the altar's deepening shades,
I seem to meet the ghostly band:
One comes-Oh mark his sparkling eye,
The light of glory kindles there;
Another, hear his deep-drawn sigh-
Oh, 't is the sigh of dumb despair!

Another treads the shadowy aisle,

I know him 't is my sainted sireI know his patient, angel smile,

His shepherd's voice, his eye of fire: His ashes rest in yonder urn;

I saw his death; I closed his eye;
Bright sparks amidst those ashes burn,
That death has taught me how to die.

Long be our Father's temple ours,
Wo to the hand by which it falls;

A thousand spirits watch its bowers,
A cloud of angels guard its walls,
And be their shield by us possess'd;
Lord, rear around the blest abode,
The buttress of a holy breast,
The rampart of a present God.



Now breathes the ruddy MORN around

His health-restoring gales,

And from the chambers of the east

A flood of light prevails.

Is there a God? Yon rising sun
An answer meet supplies,
Writes it in flame upon the earth,
Proclaims it round the skies.

The pendent clouds that curtain round
This sublunary ball,

And firmament on high, reveal

A God that governs all.

The warbling lark, in realms of air,
Has trill'd her matin lay;

The balmy breeze of morn is fled,—
It is the Noon of day.

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