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It is poured in the long convulsive sigh,
In the straining glance of an upturned eye,
And a holier offering cannot be

Than the mother's prayer for her child at sea.

Oh! I love the winds when they spurn control,
For they suit my own bond-hating soul;
I like to hear them sweeping past
Like the eagle's pinions, free and fast;
But a pang will rise, with sad alloy,
To soften my spirit and sink my joy,
When I think how dismal their voices must be
To a mother who hath a child at sea!





weep not! though lonely and wild be thy And tho' storms may be gathering round; There is one who can shield from the hurricane's wrath,

And that One may ever be found!


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!



Oн day most calm, most bright!

The fruit of this, the next world's bud,

Th' endorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a Friend-and with His blood;

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; The other days fill up the spare

And hollow room, with vanities;

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,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal, glorious King;

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?

Like childhood's rosy, dazzling dreams,
Of some far fairy land?

Is heaven a clime where diamond dews
Glitter on fadeless flowers ?

And mirth and music ring aloud
From amaranthine bowers?

Ah no! not such, not such is heaven!
Surpassing far all these,

Such cannot be the guerdon given,
Man's wearied soul to please;
For saints and sinners here below
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,
And with the Holy Spirit one,
In glory like arrayed:
And not to one created thing

Shall our embrace be given;
But all our joy shall be in God;
For only God is heaven!



ON parent's knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smil'd;
So live, that sinking in thy last sad sleep,
Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee



WITHIN the sunlit forest,

Our roof the bright blue sky,

Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow, We lift our hearts on high.

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