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Up to the deep blue starry sky
Then might my soul aspire, and hold Communion fervent, strong and high,
With bard and king, and prophet old: Then might my spirit dare to trace
The path our ancient people trod, When the gray sires of Jacob's race, Like faithful servants, walked with God!
But Israel's song, alas! is hushed,
That all her tales of triumph told,
To lofty themes they loved of yore,
All that we were but are no more! Our hearts are still by Jordan's stream,
And there our footsteps fain would be; But oh, 't is like the captive's dream
Of home his eyes may never see. A cloud is on our fathers' graves,
And darkly spreads o'er Zion's hill, And there their sons must stand as slaves, Or roam like houseless wanderers still.
Yet, where the rose of Sharon blooms,
Breaks a deep voice that stirs the dead. Through the wide world's tumultuous roar
Floats clear and sweet the solemn word,—
"Oh, virgin daughter, faint no more,
Thy tears are seen, thy prayers are heard.
Yet shall the day of promise come,
THE clouds! the clouds! they are beautiful
Their snowy company;
And as the wind springs up they start,
And before the course of the breezes dart,
The clouds the clouds! how change their forms
And now a glancing sunbeam warms,
The clouds! the clouds! round the sun at night,
They come like a band of slaves,
They are only bright in their master's light,
Oh! they are lovely, lovely then,
When the heaven around them glows; Now touched with a purple and amber stain, And now with the hue of the rose.
The clouds! the clouds! in the starlit sky,
Now they hide the deep blue firmament,
From the jewelled brow of a queen.
The clouds! the clouds! they are the lid
And in their fleecy folds is hid
The thunder's majesty !
Oh! how their warring is proclaimed
And the tempest's deadliest shafts are aimed
But here and there a feeling stays,
That never can grow cold;
And the love of nature is one of these,
GOD IS LOVE.
ALL I feel, and hear, and see,
Earth, with her ten thousand flowers;
Sounds among the vales and hills,
All the hopes and fears that start
THE POOR DEBTOR.
Look on him-through his dungeon grate, Feebly and cold, the morning light Comes stealing round him, dim and late, As if it loathed the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,
And yet the winter's breath is chill,
Just God! why lies that old man there?
What has the gray-haired prisoner done? Has murder stained his hands with gore? Not so; his crime's a fouler one :
GOD MADE THE OLD MAN POOR! For this he shares a felon's cellThe fittest earthly type of hell;