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Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry—
Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings. Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return!

Her crumbling altars must decay!

Her incense fires shall cease to burn! But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow; For hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below.


AH! when did wisdom covet length of days,
Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, or praise?
No: wisdom views, with an indifferent eye,
All finite joys, all blessings born to die.
The soul on earth is an immortal guest,
Compell'd to starve at an unreal feast:

A spark, that upward tends by nature's force;
A stream, diverted from its parent source;
A drop, dissever'd from the boundless sea;
A moment, parted from eternity;

A pilgrim, panting for a rest to come;
An exile, anxious for his native home.


How sweetly flow'd the Gospel's sound
From lips of gentleness and grace,
When listening thousands gather'd round,
And joy and reverence fill'd the place!

From heaven he came, of heaven he spoke,
To heaven he led his followers' way;

Dark clouds of gloomy night he broke,
Unveiling an immortal day.

"Come, wanderers, to my Father's home,
Come, all ye weary ones, and rest!"
Yes! sacred Teacher, we will come,
Obey thee, love thee, and be blest.

Decay then, tenements of dust!
Pillars of earthly pride, decay!
A nobler mansion waits the just,
And Jesus has prepared the way.


WHEN faith and love, which parted from thee never,
Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load
Of death, call'd life, which us from life doth sever.
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavor,
Stay'd not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But, as faith pointed with her golden rod,
Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever!
Love led them on, and faith, who knew them best.
Thy handmaids clad them o'er with purple beams,
And azure wings, that up they flew so dress'd,
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes,
Before the Judge; who thenceforth bade thee rest,
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.


SWEET bird, again that plaintive strain;

It seems the Christian voice;

O'er earth and sin constrain'd to roam,
And yet in hope rejoice.

Let gayer warblers of the grove
Their varied notes express;
Far more thy single strain I love,
And more thy pilgrim dress.

Thy notes, which erring men despise,
Like those of Zion's song,

To one alone in love arise,

Nor heed the glittering throng!

How sad thy cry, from thee if fate
Should rend that one so dear!
What songs express thy joyful state,
To see him reappear!

So weeps that soul the Savior slain,
For whom his life he gave;
So triumphs that he rose again
Victorious from the grave.

And ah! thy soft and sweet complaint,
Thy murmurs when caress'd;

So mourns the saint, by earth detain'd,
E'en on his Master's breast.

But soon, with swift unburden'd wing,
His soul shall mount above,
In one eternal strain to sing
A dying Savior's love.


My God, all nature owns thy sway;
Thou givest the night and thou the day.
When all thy loved creation wakes,
When morning, rich in lustre, breaks,
And bathes in dew the opening flower,
To thee we owe her fragrant hour;
And, when she pours her choral song,
Her melodies to thee belong!

Or when, in paler tints array'd,

The evening slowly spreads her shade;
That soothing shade, that grateful gloom,
Can, more than day's enlivening bloom,
Still every fond and vain desire,
And calmer, purer thoughts inspire;
From earth the pensive spirit free;
And lead the soften'd heart to thee.

In every scene thy hands have dress'd,
In every form by thee impress'd,
Upon the mountain's awful head,

Or where the sheltering woods are spread;
In every note that swells the gale,
Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale,

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