HEAR, Father, hear thy faint, afflicted flock
Cry to thee from the desert and the rock,
While those who seek to slay thy children, hold
Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold;
And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airs,
That nurse the grape, and wave the grain, are
theirs.
Yet better were this mountain wilderness,
And this wild life of suffering and distress-
Watchings by night, and dangerous flight by day,
And meetings in the depths of earth to pray :
Better, far better, than to kneel with them,
And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn.
Soon, mighty God, soon shall thy frown break forth
Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth:
Then the foul power of Antichrist, and all
His long upheld idolatries, shall fall,
Thou shalt raise up the trampled and opprest,
And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest.
MARRIAGE HYMN.
NOT for the summer hour alone,
When skies resplendent shine,
And youth and pleasure fill the throne,
Our hearts and hands we join;
But for those stern and wintry days
Of peril, pain, aud fear,
When Heaven's wise discipline doth make
This earthly journey drear.
Not for this span of life alone,
Which as a blast doth fly,
And like the transient flower of grass,
Just blossom, droop, and die;
But for a being without end,
This vow of love we take:
Grant us, O God! one home at last,
For our Redeemer's sake.
SWEET Hope! ne'er failing friend of man;
Thy power we all can tell,
For all have need that power to scan,
And to apply it well.
Thou say'st to-morrow's sun will shine,
And should a cloud o'erspread;
One smiling ray, sweet Hope, of thine,
Will lift the drooping head.
AN AUTUMNAL SABBATH HYMN.
LORD of the harvest! Thee we hail;
Thine ancient promise doth not fail;
With goodness all our years are crowned;
The varying seasons haste their round,
Our thanks we pay,
O let our hearts in tune be found.
If Spring doth wake the song of mirth,
If Summer warms the fruitful earth,
If Winter sweeps the dreary plain,
Or Autumn yields its ripened grain,—
Still do we sing,
To Thee, our King;
Through all their changes Thou dost reign.
But chiefly when Thy liberal hand,
Scatters new plenty o'er the land,
When sounds of music fill the air,
As homeward all their treasures bear;
We too will raise
Our hymn of praise,
For we Thy common bounties share.
Lord of the harvest! all is Thine;
The rains that fall, the suns that shine,
The seed once bidden in the ground,
The skill that makes our fruits abound;
New every year,
New praises from our lips shall sound.
ON HEARING THE SINGING OF A ROBIN WITH
THE PSALMODY OF THE CONGREGATION IN
MANCETTER CHURCH, ON SUNDAY MORNING,
NOVEMBER 25TH, 1838.
SWEET bird! who taught thee thus to raise
Thy little voice in notes of praise ?
Thy joy it seem'd with us to sing
The glories of our Heavenly King;
And from thy little warbling throat,
To sound thy loudest, sweetest note,
As if thy voice was meant to blame
Christians, whose silence is their shame.
SUGGESTED BY A DYING FATHER'S REQUEST
TO HIS CHILDREN THAT HE MIGHT SEE HIS
GARDEN ONCE MORE, FEBRUARY 8TH, 1843.
LET me once more my garden see,
That garden once so dear to me.
Alas! 'tis now o'erspread with gloom :
It seems an emblem of the tomb!-
Yet, Lord, there is a garden fair,
Where balmy odours fill the air:
Where flowers of celestial day,
Shall never, never, fade away.
Since there "The Tree of Life" I view,
Content-I bid the earth adieu!
HOPELESS Prisoner! here I'm doom'd to dwell,
Without a friend to whom my woes to tell,
Shut out from social scenes, from cheerful air,
Here I must die, the victim of despair.
What are the Sisters ?-each her fellow's spy,
Bound to reveal who dares to weep or sigh:
How sadness overcasts my youthful brow,
Whene'er 1 think upon my fatal vow.—
Why was I tempted such a vow to take,
As bound me all my kindred to forsake ?
To them I'm lost-I am for ever dead-
When shall the bell announce my spirit's fled ?
When shall my soul that's now o'erwhelmed with
grief,
Rejoice that it has found its last relief,
Where captive spirits shall be free again,
And own a gracious Saviour's gentle reign ?
Is there no hope, but that beyond the grave ?
What! none on earth to pity or to save?-
Daughters of England! hear a Prisoner's sigh,
And pity one, whose doom is here to die,
Think on the sorrow of a captive slave,
And all the powers of tyranny outbrave;
Go to our Queen who sits on Britain's throne,
And to a mother make our sorrows known.
|