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Through thy gates the mortal flow
No step has come;
There fix'd, till the last thunder's sound
"EVERY PLANT WHICH MY HEAVENLY FATHER HATH NOT PLANTED, SHALL BE ROOTED UP.”
SWIFT the tempest strips the wood,
Error, like the flimsy sail
Rent by every passing gale,
Floats her moment on the stream,
Glitters in the morning beam,
Dares the breath of heaven to brave,
And founders in the foaming wave.
Even the little garden flower,
Nought endures but thou, O Lord;
Thou, the first, the midst, the end;
IT IS GOOD TO BE HERE.
METHINKS it is good to be here;
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no, Affrighted he shrinketh away;
For see! they would pin him below
To a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.
To Beauty? Ah! no: she forgets
The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore
Shall we build to the purple of Pride,
The trappings which dizen the proud?
And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd,
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.
To Riches? Alas! 't is in vain, Who hid in their turns have been hid:
The treasures are squander'd again;
And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?
Ah! here is a plentiful board,
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah! no; they have wither'd and died,
Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear
Which compassion itself could relieve;
Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear; Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here.
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah! no; for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow;
Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise;
The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfill'd; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.
ONE adequate support
For the calamities of mortal life
Soul of our souls, and safeguard of the world,
AN EVENING SERVICE.
THE cold wind strips the yellow leaf,
The songs have ceased, and busy men
O! in an hour so still as this,
From care, and toil, and tumult stealing,
And rise to Thee-to thee, whose hand
Being, whose all-pervading might
Thou, ruler of our destiny!
With million gifts hast thou supplied us,
Hidden from our view futurity,
Unveiling all the past to guide us.