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Prove that, indeed, Thou art
The life-wheel and the heart
From thee I cannot fly;
Marks the minutest atom of thy reign;
Thou all my path wouldst know,
But why should I depart?
'Tis safety where thou art;
And could one favor'd spot thy being hold,
That sacred spot would seek,
And dwell within the shelter of thy fold!
A THOUGHT ON THE SEA-SHORE.
BEYOND, beyond that boundless sea,
Art nigh, and yet my laboring mind
Thee in these works of power to find,
Thy messenger, the stormy wind,
These speak of thee with loud acclaim;
The wonders of thy ways:
We hear thy voice, when thunders roll,
O, not in circling depth, or height,
O come, thou Presence Infinite,
And make thy creature blest.
TO A FRIEND UNDER CALUMNY.
""T is from the Lord," the humbled monarch cried, "Even let him curse." And so he kiss'd the rod, O'erlook'd the injurer, and bow'd to God.
O majesty of meekness, which defied
The impotence of tongues, and calm relied
On him who judgeth righteously! "From men Who are thy sword,”—so pray'd the sufferer then,— "From evil tongues, thy scourge, and men of pride, O Lord, deliver me!" Yet, who can tell,
But those who have endured, how keen the pain That Slander's fangs, tongues set on fire of hell,
And venom'd whispers that inflict a stain,
Can cause the innocent man? But O, 't is great
BENEFIT OF TRIALS.
WHEN thou art in thy chamber, and thy knee
And when thy soul before his throne is bent,
Of earthly wo and trouble, which are sent To fit the high soul for eternity.
It is not in the summer tide of life
That the heart hoards its treasures: it is when
Such as may move the souls of constant men,
For sadness teaches us the truth of things
Which had been hid beneath the crown of flowers Which gladness wears; and the few silent hours Of quiet, heavenward thought which sorrow brings, Are better than a life in pleasure's bowers, Drinking the poisonous chalice which she pours, To quench our heavenlier spirits' murmurings.
Seek thou the storms of life; fly not the trial
That binds the conqueror's wreath upon thy brow; And faint not, though the tears of anguish flow, And though upon thy head the angry vial
Of fate be pour'd: but with the conscious glow
Look to that Power who watch'd thy self-denial.
THE CURSE OF CAIN.
GENESIS IV. 15, 16.
O THE wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing!
And lo! like a deer in the fright of a chase,
All nature to him has been blasted and bann'd,
The groans of a father his slumber shall start,
And the tears of a mother shall pierce to his heart,
And the wife of his bosom-the faithful and fair-
And his offering may blaze-unregarded by Heaven;