CHRISTMAS-DAY. 1804. YET once more, and once more, awake, my Harp, Yet with no wintry garland from the woods, Of the Redeemer. Near two thousand suns Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse Of generations, since the day-spring first Beam'd from on high! Now to the mighty mass Of that increasing aggregate we add One unit more. Space, in comparison, How small, yet mark'd with how much misery; Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears. So has the year been character'd with woe In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes Yet 'twas not thus He taught not thus He liv'd, Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer And much thanksgiving. — He, a man of woes, - O more than angel teacher! He had words To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds; When with deep agony his heart was rack'd, Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd, They know not what they do." Angels of Heaven, Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross, And did him homage, say, may mortal join The hallelujahs of the risen God? Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard Amid the seraphim in light divine ? Yes, He will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign, Low though it be and humble. - Lord of life, Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs; And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more. NELSONI MORS. YET once again, my Harp, yet once again, The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last, Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks Of frolic fancy to the line of truth; Not unrepining, for my froward heart, Still turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow Of spring-gales past- the woods and storied haunts Of my not songless boyhood. Yet once more, Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink; The good, the brave - he must not, shall not sink Without the meed of some melodious tear. Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour Or Castaly, though from the morning cloud I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse: Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, Thy honor'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd Amid the carnage of the field I've sate With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung Of heaven sit thou upon my harp, And give it feeling, which were else too cold How dimly on that morn the sun arose, 'Kerchieft in mists, and tearful, when PSALM XXII. My God, my God, oh, why dost thou forsake me? The beam of morning witnesses my sighing, Our fathers were released from grief and pain. To thee they cried, and thou didst hear their wailing, Me they revile; with many ills molested, They bid me seek of thee, O Lord, redress: On God, they say, his hope and trust he rested, Let God relieve him in his deep distress. To me, Almighty in thy mercy shining, Life's dark and dangerous portals thou didst ope: And softly on my mother's lap reclining, Breath'd thro' my breast the lively soul of hope. |