Thy goodness beyond thought and power divine. Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels, for behold him, and with songs ye And choral symphonies, day without night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn Moon! that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st; In honour to the world's great Author, rise: Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising or falling, still advance his praise. THE EMIGRANT'S DAUGHTER. Mrs. Sigourney. "THE way is long," the father said, While through the western wild he sped With eager searching eye; Cheer ye, my babes," the mother said, And drew them closer to her side, As frown'd the evening sky. Just then, within the thicket rude, On the rough floor their simple bed On leathern hinge the doors were hung, The smoke-wreath stain'd the wall; And here they found their only home, Who once had ruled the spacious dome, And paced the pictured hall. But hearts, with pure affection warm, And there the wife her husband cheer'd, Still, the lone man his toil pursued, While, 'neath his roof so low and rude, A gentle daughter rose, As peering through some refted rock, And blooming on a broken stock, The blushing sweetbriar grows ! With tireless hand the board she spread; The Holy Book at evening read; And when, with serious air, He saw her bend so sweetly mild, But stern disease his footstep staid, The fever flame was high; No more the forest fear'd his stroke, He fell, as falls the rugged oak His youngest girl, his fondest pride, While gazing on his death-struck eye, Who hastes his throbbing head to hold ? In beauty's opening prime ! That blessed daughter, meek of heart, Had borne before her time. That gasp, that groan,-'tis o'er, 'tis o'er! The manly breast must heave no more! That heart no longer pine. Oh! Thou, who feed'st the raven's nest, "The fatherless are mine." Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms asWhence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day. The halls, from old heroic ages gray, Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a free vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways,-to the feverish bed Of sickness bound;-yet, oh my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. |