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Through thy gates the mortal flow
Has for countless years roll'd on •
Back from the tomb

No step has come;

There fix'd, till the last thunder's sound
Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound!


SWIFT the tempest strips the wood,
Swift the sun dries up the flood;
Trophied domes and aisles decay,
Tribes and empires melt away,
Like the wreath of mountain snow,
When summer's breeze begins to blow.

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,
Once the joy of all the bower,
Fondly watch'd from day to day,
From its stem is swept away;
Yester morn, what bower so bright?
But, ah! how desolate to-night!

Nought endures but thou, O Lord;
Everlasting is thy word!

Thou, the first, the midst, the end;
Thou, the deathless, changeless friend :
Grant us, Lord, beyond the skies,
Flowers whose fragrance never dies.


METHINKS it is good to be here;
If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom?
Nor Elias, nor Moses appear,

But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.

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 charms which she wielded before:
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore
For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride,

The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside,

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,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

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,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah! no; they have wither'd and died,
Or fled with the spirit above,-

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

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
Exists-one only-an assured belief,
That the procession of our fate, howe'er
Sad or disturb'd, is order'd by a Being
Of infinite benevolence and power,
Whose everlasting purposes embrace
All accidents, converting them to good.
The darts of anguish fir not where the seat
Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified
By acquiescence in the Will Supreme
For time and for eternity :-by faith,
Faith absolute in God, including hope,
And the defence that is in boundless love
Of his perfections: with habitual dread
Of aught unworthily conceived, endured
Impatiently, ill done, or left undone,
To the dishonor of his holy name.

Soul of our souls, and safeguard of the world,
Sustain-thou only canst-the sick of heart,
Restore their languid spirits, and recall
Their lost affections unto thee and thine!


THE cold wind strips the yellow leaf,
The stars are twinkling faintly o'er us;
All nature wears her garb of grief,
While day's fair book is closed before us.

The songs have ceased, and busy men
Are to their beds of silence creeping;
The pale, cold moon looks out again
On the tired world so softly sleeping.

O! in an hour so still as this,

From care, and toil, and tumult stealing,
I'll consecrate an hour to bliss-
To meek devotion's holy feeling,

And rise to Thee-to thee, whose hand
Unrolled the golden lamp of heaven;
Mantled with beauty all the land;
Gave light to morn, and shade to even.

Being, whose all-pervading might
The laws of countless worlds disposes;
Yet gives the sparkling dews their light,
Their beauty to the blushing roses :

Thou, ruler of our destiny!

With million gifts hast thou supplied us,

Hidden from our view futurity,

Unveiling all the past to guide us.

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