Abus'd! though fame's proud heights be trod,
Those barren summits nought can give;
Us'd for the glory of thy God-
The humblest in content may live.
Thou Giver of this gift sublime!
Grant us thy grace its use to see, That we may at the end of time Enjoy eternity with thee.
THE WORKS OF CREATION.
HEMANS.
My fervent soul shall bless the Lord,
And sing Jehovah's name ador'd.
Oh God! how great are all thy ways,
Demanding gratitude and praise;
Honour and majesty are thine,
And beams of light around thee shine:
Thy hand extends the arch on high,
The azure curtain of the sky;
The clouds thy regal chariot form;
Thou ridest on the rushing storm;
Amidst the regions of the air,
The winds thy car triumphal bear;
To thee enraptur'd spirits bend,
And angels round thy throne attend;
While lightnings in thy presence beam,
The ministers of power supreme.
At thy behest the earth appear'd,
On firm eternal basis rear'd:
The floods arose at thy command,
nd spread their mantle o'er the land:
Thy word rebuk'd the swelling deep; The waters rush'd from every steep; The thunders echoed, and they fled, And sought their peaceful destin'd bed; Jehovah's power restrain'd their force, And limited their whelming course : He bade the lucid fountains flow, Meandering thro' the vales below; They fertilize the plains and fields, And nature all her treasure yields. Beside their banks with verdure dress'd The woodland songsters form their nest; Amidst the shade of waving trees, They pour the sweetest melodies; The wild spontaneous hymn they raise, And sing their great Creator's praise.
ODE ON THE CREATION.
ADDISON.
THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
The unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land,
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What, though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What, though no real voice, nor sound,
Amidst their radiant orbs be found!
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."
DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS.
R. MONTGOMERY.
On! beautiful beyond depicting words
To paint, the hour that wafts a soul to heaven!
The world grows dim, the scenes of time depart,
The hour of peace, the walk of social joy,
The mild companion, and the deep-soul'd friend,
The lov'd and lovely-see his face no more.
The mingling spell of sun, of sea and air,
Is broken; voice and gaze, and smiles that speak,
Must perish; parents take their hush'd adieu;
A wife, a child, a daughter half divine,
Or son that never drew a father's tear,-
Approach him, and his dying tones receive
Like God's own language!-'tis an hour of awe,
Yet terrorless, when revelations flow
From faith immortal; view that pale-worn brow;
It gleams with glory!-in his eye there dawns
SACRED HARMONY
Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What, though in solemn silence all Move round the dark terrestrial ball; What, though no real voice, nor sound, Amidst their radiant orbs be found! In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice; For ever singing, as they shine, "The hand that made us is divine."
DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS.
R. MONTGOMERY.
OH! beautiful beyond depicting words
To paint, the hour that wafts a soul to heaven!
The world grows dim, the scenes of time depart,
The hour of peace, the walk of social joy,
The mild companion, and the deep-soul'd friend
The lov'd and lovely-see his face no more.
The mingling spell of sun, of sea and air,
Is broken; voice and gaze, and smiles that spe
Must perish; parents take their hush'd adieu;
A wife, a child, a daughter half divine,
Or son that never drew a father's tear,-
Approach him, and his dying tones receive
Like God's own language!-'tis an hour of swe
Yet terrorless, when revelations flow
From faith immortal; view that pale-worn b
It gleams with glory!-in his eye there dawns
A dazzling earnest of unutter'd joy.
Each pang subdued, his longing soul respires
The gales of glorified eternity;
And round him, hues ethereal, harps of light,
And lineaments of earthless beauty throng,
As, wing'd on melody, the saint departs,
While heaven in miniature before him shines.
THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM.
BEFORE thy leaves thou com'st once more,
White blossom of the sloe!
Thy leaves will come as heretofore;
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er,
Will then lie low.
A month, at least, before thy time
Thou com'st, pale flower, to me;
For well thou knowest the frosty rime
Will blast me ere my vernal prime,
No more to be.
Why here in winter? No storm lours
O'er nature's silent shroud!
But blithe larks meet the sunny showers,
High o'er the doomed untimely flowers,
In beauty bowed!
Sweet violets in the budding grove
Peep where the glad waves run; The wren below, the thrush above, Of bright to-morrow's joy and love, Sing to the sun.
And where the rose-leaf, ever bold,
Hears bees chant hymns to God,
The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold,
Smiles on the well, in summer cold,
And daisied sod.
But thou, pale blossom, thou art come,
And flowers in winter blow,
To tell me that the worm makes room
For me, her brother, in the tomb,
And thinks me slow.
For as the rainbow of the dawn,
Foretels an eve of tears;
A sun-beam on the saddened lawn,
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn
In early years.
Thy leaves will come! but songful Spring
Will see no leaf of mine;
Her bells will ring, her bride-maids sing,
When my young leaves are withering,
Where no suns shine.
Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath,
When June's sweet sabbaths chime!
But thine, before my time, O Death,
I go where no flower blossometh,
Before my time.
Even as the blushes of the morn
Vanish, and long ere noon
The dew-drop dieth on the thorn,
So fair I bloomed and was I born
To die so soon?
For as the rainbow of the dawn,
Foretels an eve of tears;
A sun-beam on the saddened lawn,
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn
In early years.
Thy leaves will come! but songful Spring
Will see no leaf of mine;
Her bells will ring, her bride-maids sing,
When my young leaves are withering,
Where no suns shine.
Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath.
When June's sweet sabbaths chime!
But thine, before my time, O Death,
I go where no flower blossometh,
Even as the blushes of the morn
Vanish, and long ere noon The dew-drop dieth on the thorn, So fair I bloomed: and was I born To die so soon?
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