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It is poured in the long convulsive sigh,
Oh! I love the winds when they spurn control,
[path, On weep not ! though lonely and wild be thy
And tho' storms may be gathering round; There is one who can shield from the hurri
cane's wrath, And that One may ever be found ! [cry, He is with thee, around thee, He lists to thy
And thy tears are recorded by Him, A pillar of fire He will be to thine eye,
Whose brightness no shadows shall dim.
Oh follow it still through the darkness of night!
In safety 't will lead to the morrow; 'Tis not like the meteor of earth's fickle light,
Often quenched in delusion and sorrow ; For pure is the beam and unfading the ray,
And the tempests assail it in vain ; [away, When the mists of this worid are all vanish'd
In its brightness it still will remain.
And weep not that none are around thee to
love, For a Father is with thee to bless; And if griefs have exalted thy spirit above, Oh! say,
wouldst thou wish for one less ? He is with thee, whose favour for ever is life,
Could a mortal heart guard thee so well ? Oh! hush the vain wish, calm thy bosom's
wild strife, And forbid e'en a thought to rebel !
MRS. FRANCIS HORNBLOWER.
Ou day most calm, most bright!
Th' endorsement of supreme delight,
The couch of time, care's balm and bay : The week were dark, but for thy light,
Thy torch doth shew the way.
Sundays, the pillars are
On which Heav'n's palace arched lies ;
They are the fruitful beds and borders, In God's rich garden ; that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.
The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on time's string,
On Sunday, Heaven's gate stands ope, Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.
This day my Saviour rose,
And did enclose this light for His ; That, as each beast his manger knows,
Man might not of his fodder miss ;
Christ hath took in this piece of ground, And made a garden there, for those Who want herbs for their wound.
Is heaven a place where pearly streams
Glide over silver sands?
Of some far fairy land ?
Glitter on fadeless flowers ?
From amaranthine bowers ?
Ah no! not such, not such is heaven !
Surpassing far all these,
Man's wearied soul to please ;
Such vain to be have proved : And the pure spirit will despise Whate'er the sense hath loved.
There we shall dwell with sire and son,
And with the mother-maid,
In glory like arrayed :
Shall our embrace be given ;
FROM THE PERSIAN.
On parent's knees, a naked new-born child,
WITHin the sunlit forest,
Our roof the bright blue sky, Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow,
We lift our hearts on high.