Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour
No precious dews of Aganippe's well,
Or Castaly, though from the morning cloud
I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse:
Yet will I wreath a garland for his brows,
Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent
Of Britain, my lov'd country; and with tears
Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe
Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm
And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd
Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too,
If ever I have loved, with faltering step,
To follow thee in the cold and starless night,
To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff;
And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud on 26*
Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd
Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds,
The dying soul's viaticum; if oft
Amid the carnage of the field I've sate
With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung
To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul,
With mercy and forgiveness-visitant
Of Heaven-sit thou upon my harp,
And give it feeling, which were else too cold
For argument so great, for theme so high.
How dimly on that morn the sun arose,
Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when-
In heaven we shall be purified so us to be able to endure the splendours of the Deity.
AWAKE, Sweet harp of Judah, wake,
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake;
We sing the Saviour of our race,
The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place."
When God's right arm is bared for war,
And thunders clothe his cloudy car,
Where, where, oh where, shall man retire,
To escape the horrors of his ire?
'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by;
God sees his Well-beloved's face,
And spares us in our hiding-place.
Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen;
To him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.
While yet we sojourn here below,
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race,
We deeply need a hiding-place.
Yet courage-days and years will glide,
And we shall lay these clods aside;
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood.
Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed
Shall meet the Father face to face,
And need no more a hiding-place.
The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, by Henry, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, and singing it, as he was wont to do on such occasions.
O LORD, another day is flown,
And we, a lonely band,
Are met once more before thy throne,
To bless thy fostering hand.
And wilt thou bend a listening ear,
To praises low as ours?
Thou wilt! for Thou dost love to hear
The song which meekness pours.
And, Jesus, thou thy smiles will deign,
As we before thee pray;
For thou didst bless the infant train,
And we are less than they.
O let thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease!
And shed abroad in every heart
Thine everlasting peace!
Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine,
A flock by Jesus led;
The Sun of Holiness shall shine,
In glory on our head.
And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,
And thou wilt bless our way;
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet
The dawn of lasting day.
WHEN marshall'd on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone, of all the train,
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the Star of Bethlehem.
Once on the raging seas I rode,
The storm was loud,-the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck, I ceas'd the tide to stem;
When suddenly a star arose,
It was the Star of Bethlehem.
It was my guide, my light, my all,
It bade my dark forebodings cease; And through the storm and dangers' thrall, It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moor'd---my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
For ever and for evermore,
The star!--The Star of Bethlehem !
O LORD, my God, in mercy turn,
In mercy hear a sinner mourn!
To thee I call, to thee I cry,
O leave me, leave me not to die!
I strove against thee, Lord, I know,
I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law;
The hour is past---the day's gone by,
And I am left alone to die.
O pleasures past, what are ye now
But thorns about my bleeding brow!
Spectres that hover round my brain,
And aggravate and mock my pain.
For pleasure I have given my soul;
Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll!
Now vengeance smile---and with a blow,
Lay the rebellious ingrate low
Yet Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling,
I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing;
I'll clasp the cross, and holding there,
Even me, oh bliss '---his wrath may spare.
Inserted in a Collection of Selected and Original Songs, published by the Rev. J. Plumptre, of Clare Hall, Cambridge.
Yes, once more that dying strain,
Anna, touch thy lute for me;
Sweet when Pity's tones complain,
Doubly sweet is melody.
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