But if on God our care we cast, His power remains the same:Nor do our spirits less demand The bounty of his liberal hand.
Is there no cruse whose store should feed
Devotion's hallow'd fire?
No living bread, whose daily need
Our deathless souls require?
Are there not seasons when we sigh
In secret o'er our scant supply!
Be ours the faith the widow knew,
When she the seer supplied,
So shall we own the promise true,
God's goodness will provide;
The meal shall last, the cruse fail not,
'Till plenty be our spirits' lot.
EVENING MUSIC OF THE ANGELS.
Low warblings, now, and solitary harps Were heard among the angels, touched and tuned As to an evening hymn, preluding soft To cherub voices. Louder as they swelled, Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments ed with clear silver sounds, till concord rose as the harmony of winds to heaven; sweet as nature's springtide melodies some worn pilgrim, first, with glistening eyes eeting his native valley, whence the sounds f rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine,
The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe, Blent with the dulcet distance-mellowed bell, Come, like the echo of his early joys. In every pause, from spirits in mid air, Responsive still were golden viols heard, And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down.
PLEAD Thou, oh plead my cause!
Each self-excusing plea
My trembling soul withdraws,
And flies to thee.
Where justice rears her throne,
Ah who, save thee alone,
May stand, oh Spotless One!
Plead Thou my cause!
Ah! plead not aught of mine
Before thine altar thrown;
Fragments-when all is thine-
All, all thy own!
Thou seest what stains they bear;
Oh, since each tear, each prayer
Hath need of pardon there,
Plead Thou my cause!
With lips that, dying, breathed
Blessings, for words of scorn;
With brow where I had wreathed
The piercing thorn;
With breast, to whose pure tide
He did the weapon guide,
Who had no home beside,
Plead Thou my cause!
Plead-when the tempter's art,
To each fond hope of mine,
Denies this faithless heart
Can e'er be thine.
If slander whisper too
The sin I never knew,
Thou, who couldst urge the true,
Plead Thou my cause!
Oh plead my cause above!
Plead thine within my breast;
Till there thy peaceful Dove
Shall build her nest.
Thou know'st this will-how frail,
Thou know'st, though language fail,
My soul's mysterious tale,-
Plead Thou my cause!
THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learn'd
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,-ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthers,—in the darkling wood, de the cool and silence, he knelt down And to the Mightiest, solemn thanks
pation. For his simple heart
Mit resist the sacred influences,
Tat the stilly twilight of the place,
idth the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven,
Tided their mossy boughs, and from the sound
te invisible breath that swayed at once
Alter green tops, stole over him, and bowed
Ep with the thought of boundless Power
ressible Majesty. Ah, why
in the world's riper years, neglect
aurent sanctuaries, and adore
among the crowd, and under roofs
Trail hands have raised! Let me, at least,
the shadow of this aged wood,
free byn-thrice happy, if it find
ace in his ear.
thered these venerable columns; thou Father, thy hand eave this verdant roof. Thou didst look
the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose A these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
towards heaven. The century-living crow, The birth was in their tops, grew old and died Aing their branches, till at last they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Caution with his Maker. Here are seen Fo traces of man's pomp or pride:-no silks late, to jewels shine, nor envious eyes
With breast, to whose pure tide
He did the weapon guide,
Who had no home beside,
Plead Thou my cause!
Plead-when the tempter's art,
To each fond hope of mine,
Denies this faithless heart
Can e'er be thine.
If slander whisper too
The sin I never knew,
Thou, who couldst urge the true,
Plead Thou my cause!
Oh plead my cause above!
Plead thine within my breast;
Till there thy peaceful Dove
Shall build her nest.
Thou know'st this will-how frail,
Thou know'st, though language fail,
My soul's mysterious tale,-
cause!
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.com.cy/books/content?id=woQgAAAAMAAJ&output=html_text&pg=PA115&img=1&zoom=3&hl=en&q=editions:UOM39015030085446&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U0MAM3VlidVAa9EbhzTX1WxuhnOvg&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=62,662,362,283)
The sound of anthems,-in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down
And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
That, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven,
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless Power
And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised! Let me, at least,
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn-thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in his ear.
Father, thy hand
Hath reared these venerable columns; thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look
down
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
And shot towards heaven. The century-livingcrow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. Here are seen
No traces of man's pomp or pride ;-no silks
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes
![[graphic]](https://books.google.com.cy/books/content?id=woQgAAAAMAAJ&output=html_text&pg=PA116&img=1&zoom=3&hl=en&q=editions:UOM39015030085446&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U0sxRVm2g9jP7PC_mj8gum2ebI4eg&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=0,0,885,1015)
in the faltering footsteps of decay,
Teh presses-ever gay and beautiful youth
beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Vot less proudly than their ancestors
er beneath them. O, there is not lost
of earth's charms; upon her bosom yet,
the fight of untold centuries,
Toftness of her far beginning lies,
Je pet stall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Wah enemy Death-yea, seats himself
y the sepalehre, and blooms and smiles,
of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Ek his own nourishment. For he came forth
Ja thine own bosom, and shall have no end.
The Lave been holy men, who hid themselves
By in the woody wilderness, and gave
Theres to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The paration born with them, nor seemed
than the hoary trees and rocks
And them-and there have been holy men,
W dermed it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Bare, and, in thy presence, re-assure
My eble virtue. Here its enemies,
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink,
And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou
Dat are the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me-the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
For ever. Written on thy works, I read
The lesson of thy own eternity.
Lo! all grow old and die: but see, again,
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 than 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.
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.
Encounter; no fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here--thou fill's
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summits of these trees
In music;-thou art in the cooler breath,
That, from the inmost darkness of the place.
Comes, scarcely felt:-the barky trunks, the ground
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
Here is continual worship;-nature, here,
In the tranquillity that thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs
Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roets
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and gras
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak-
By whose immoveable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated--not a prince,
In all the proud old world beyond the deep,
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his n
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
the broad sun. That delicate forest flowe
h scented breath, and look so like a smile.
THE gs, as it issues from the shapeless mould
learnanation of the indwelling Life,
To hew tle token of the upholding Love,
And sprea; the soul of this wide universe.
The lofty va
t is awed within me, when I think
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 seemed
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them;-and there have been holy men,
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire, and, in thy presence, re-assure
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,
|