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Can the huge mountains hide me in some cave
verge The firm rocks shake, and own their Maker,
God. Is there no cleansing stream, no refuge, say, To hide my soul, and wash my guilt away?
Peace, troubled spirit-stay the flowing tears,
whole, In willing love He bowed His head and died;
In glory, now, He still invites thy soul
THE RUFFLED NEST.
“As an eagle stirreth up her nest, fluttereth over her young, spreadeth abroad her wings, taketh them, beareth them on her wings; so the Lord alone did lead him, and there was no strange God with him.”Deut. xxxii, 11, 12.
He hath stirred up thy nest, His chastening
hand Has touched thy pleasant gourds, thy brightest
hopes Of happiness, that in this foreign land Thou mayest not linger by the sunny slopesThe rich and verdant plains, but speed thy way To the bright realms of everlasting day.
He hath stirred up thy nest, to make thee feel
below. Love rules the dealings of thy gracious God, Then faint thou not, but kiss the chastening
rod. What hast thou here? a frail and shattered tent All weather-worn, and rocked by every blast. Loosen'd the tottering stakes, the canvass rent, The cordage rotten-it must fall at last. What hast thou there! a mansion in the skies, A radiant home, too bright for mortal eyes.
Linger not here, e'en by the murm’ring fount, Or palm tree's pleasant shade, but onward
move, And climb with eager foot the heavenly mount, Dwell in the sheltering rock, the cleft of love, Till Christ, thy glorious Lord, with clouds shall
come, And call thee hence, to share His heavenly
"For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise my love, my fair one, and come away.”—Canticles ii. 11–13.
WINTER is over, with its chilling rains,
beam. Fresh from her death-like sleep, Creation wakes, And, with a bound, to life and beauty breaks.
The woody glades, and sloping valleys ring With Nature's choir, the warbling birds of
Spring Deep in the forest shades, the gentle dove Breathes her low notes of melody and love, And childhood looks with rapture at the sky, Bright as the blue of his own laughing eye; Then plucks the primrose pale and violet sweet That deck the springiug turf beneath his feet. 'Tis Nature's holiday, and every hour Breathes a fresh loveliness o'er tree and flower.
Winter is over, and the new-born soul