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Or stopp'd to gather the brilliant flower
That open'd its bud to the mid-day hour.

But the gay flower died when she touch'd it near,
And the summer bower was not for her.

The lamb is housed when his game is play'd,
And the sparrow knows where her nest is made,
But the wanderer's toil is never done,

All else have a home, but she has none.
On whatever spot might her limbs recline,
She sigh'd and whisper'd, "It is not mine."
She sigh❜d till she heard the warning word,
“Shall it profit thee, when it slew thy Lord?
Earth bare the thorns that pierced his brow,
Should it yield thee flowers that fade not now?
Thou wilt find, some fleeting seasons gone,

A spot of earth that is all thine own;
And none will contend for thy dark abode,
When thy spirit is gone to rejoin its God.
'T is dark—but thy Savior has shared it too,
'T was the only home that on earth he knew;
And his home in heaven is for thee to share-
Pass lightly on till thou join him there."


O God! whose thunder shakes the sky,
Whose eye this atom-globe surveys,"
To thee, my only rock, I fly,

Thy mercy in thy justice praise :

The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial night,
Are past the powers of human skill;
But what the Eternal does is right.

O teach me, in the trying hour,

When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own thy power, Thy goodness love, thy justice fear:If in this bosom aught but thee, Encroaching, sought a boundless sway, Omniscience could the danger see, And mercy take the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain? Why drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain,

For God created all to bless.

But ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid bosom's feeble rill,
The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resign'd,

I'll thank the inflictor of the blow; Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,

Nor let the gush of misery flow :The gloomy mantle of the night, Which on my sinking spirit steals, Will vanish at the morning light,

Which God, my orient sun, reveals.


PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,
Unutter'd or express'd;

The motion of a hidden fire,

That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear;

The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try ;

Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air,

His watchword at the gates of death—
He enters heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And say, “Behold, he prays!"

The saints, in prayer, appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind,
When with the Father and his Son
Their fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made on earth alone;
The Holy Spirit pleads;

And Jesus, at the Eternal's throne,
For sinners intercedes.

O thou, by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way;
The path of prayer thyself hast trod
Lord, teach us how to pray.


BEHOLD this ruin! 'T was a skull

Once of ethereal spirit full!

This narrow cell was life's retreat;

This space was thought's mysterious seat!
What beauteous pictures fill'd this spot!
What dreams of pleasure long forgot!
Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear,
Has left one trace of record here.

Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye-
But start not at the dismal void!-
If pious love that eye employ'd,
If with no lawless fire it gleam'd,

But through the dew of kindness beam'd,
That eye shall be forever bright,

When stars and suns have lost their light!

Here, in the silent cavern, hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue!
If falsehood's honey it disdain'd,

And where it could not praise, was chain'd;
If bold in virtue's cause it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke;

That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee,
When death unveils eternity!

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
Or with its envied rubies shine?—
To hew the rock or wear the gem
Can nothing now avail to them;
But if the page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim,
Than all that waits on wealth or fame.

Avails it whether bare or shod
These feet the path of duty trod?
If from the bowers of joy they fled
To soothe affliction's humble bed,
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurn'd,
And home to virtue's lap return'd;
These feet with angel's wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky.


WHERE then may Peace erect her steadfast throne?

Within the pure, the pious breast alone,

Whose gentle passions, harmonized by love,
Are link'd to man below, to God above:
Spite of the boast of luxury and pride,
Within that narrow round-

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