How on the faltering footsteps of decay
Youth presses-ever gay and beautiful youth—
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors
Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost
One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,
The freshness of her far beginning lies,,
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch enemy Death; yea, seats himself
Upon the sepulchre, and blooms, and smiles,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.
There have been holy men, who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The generation born with them, nor seem'd
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them; and there have been holy men
Who deem'd it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure
My feeble virtue. Here, its enemies,
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps, shrink,
And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods,
And drowns the villages; when, at thy call,
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities;-who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?
O, from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad, unchain'd elements, to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,
And, to the beautiful order of thy works,
Learn to conform the order of our lives.
EFFECTS OF THE GRACE OF GOD.
GRACE does not steel the faithful heart,
That it should know no ill;
We learn to kiss the chastening rod,
And feel its sharpness still.
But how unlike the Christian's tears
To those the world must shed!
His sighs are tranquil and resign'd
As the heart from which they sped.
The saint may be compell'd to meet
Misfortune's saddest blow;
His bosom is alive to feel
The keenest pang of wo.
But, ever as the wound is given,
There is a hand unseen,
Hasting to wipe away the scar,
And hide where it has been.
The Christian would not have his lot
Be other than it is;
For, while his Father rules the world,
He knows that world is his.
He knows that He who gave the best,
Will give him all beside;
Assured that every good he asks
Is evil, if denied.
When clouds of sorrow gather round,
His bosom owns no fear;
He knows, where'er his portion be,
His God will still be there.
And when the threaten'd storm has burst, Whate'er the trial be,
Something yet whispers him within,
"Be still, for it is He!"
Poor nature, ever weak, will shrink
From the afflictive stroke;
But faith disclaims the hasty plaint
Impatient nature spoke.
He knows it is a Father's will,
And therefore it is good;
Nor would he venture, by a wish,
To change it, if he could.
His grateful bosom quickly learns
Its sorrows to disown;
Yields to his pleasure, and forgets
The choice was not his own.
THE bird, let loose in eastern skies,
When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam :
But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.
So grant me, God, from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to thee :-
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
My soul, as home she springs ;
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom on her wings.
GOD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark green fields contented lie;
The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might commune with the sky;
The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.
God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summon'd up their thundering bands;
Then the white sails are dash'd like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.
God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To wave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.
God of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
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