Again heap'd up, then down again,
The sand above more hollow grew,
Like days and years still filt'ring through,
And mingling joy with pain.
While thus I spin, and sometimes sing,
(For now and then my heart will glow,)
Thou measurest time's expanding wing:
By thee the noon-tide hour I know;
Though silent thou,
Still shalt thou flow,
And joy along thy destined way;
But when I glean the sultry fields,
When earth her yellow harvest yields,
Thou gett'st a holiday.
Steady as truth, on either end
Thy daily task performing well,
Thou'rt meditation's constant friend,
And strik'st the heart without a bell.
Come, lovely May!
The lengthen'd day
Shall gild once more my native plain;
Curl inward here, sweet woodbine flower,
Companion of the lonely hour;
I'll turn thee up again.
FROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand:
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain.
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle;
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile.
In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strown,
The Heathens in their blindness
Bow down to wood and stone.
Shall we, whose souls are lighted
By wisdom from on high,
Shall we, to man benighted,
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! O salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Has learnt Messiah's name.
Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,
It spreads from pole to pole;
Till o'er our ransom'd nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.
SHOULD Some scraph wing his flight
From the realms of cloudless light,
Earth and ocean soaring over,
Where would he delight to hover ?
Not o'er halls of regal pride;
Not o'er fields with carnage dyed,
Where, 'mid shouts of triumph breathing,
Fame the hero's brow is wreathing;
Not o'er cells of letter'd age;
Not o'er haunts of hoary sage;
Not where youthful poet stealing,
Wooes the muse's warm revealing ;
Not o'er wood or shadowy vale
Where the lover tells his tale,
And the blush-love's fondest token-
Speaks what words had never spoken;
Not where music's silver sound
Wakes the dormant echoes round,
And with charms as pure as tender
Holds the heart in pleas'd surrender.
O'er the calm sequester'd spot,
O'er the lone and lowly cot,
Where, its little hands enwreathing,
Childhood's guileless prayer is breathing;
While the gentle mother nigh,
Points her daughter's prayer on high,
To the God whose goodness gave her,
To the God whose love shall save her :-
There, awhile, the Son of light
Would arrest his rapid flight,
Thence would bear, to heaven ascending,
Prayers with heartfelt praises blending.
Gladly would he soar above,
With the sacrifice of love;
And through heaven's expanded portal,
Bear it to the throne immortal!
THE village bells with silver chime
Come soften'd o'er the distant shore;
Though I have heard them many a time,
They never seem'd so sweet before.
A silence rests upon the hill,
A listening awe pervades the air;
The very flowers are shut and still,
And bow'd as if in prayer.
And in this hush'd and breathless close,
O'er earth, and air, and sky, and sea,
A still low voice in silence goes,
Which speaks alone, Great God, of Thee.
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook,
The linnet's warble fainter grown,
The hive-bound bee, the homeward rook,
All these their Maker own.
The deepening woods, the fading trees,
The grasshopper's last feeble sound,
The flowers just waken'd by the breeze,
All leave the stilness more profound.
The twilight takes a deeper shade,
The dusky pathways darker grow,
And silence reigns in glen and glade,
While all is mute below.
And other eves as sweet as this,
Will close upon as calm a day;
Then, sinking down the deep abyss,
Will, like the last, be swept away,
Until eternity is gain'd—
The boundless sea without a shore,
That without time for ever reign'd,
And will when time's no more.
Now nature sinks in soft repose,
A living semblance of the grave; The dew steals noiseless on the rose, The boughs have almost ceased to wave: The silent sky, the sleeping earth,
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sodAll tell from whom they had their birth, "Behold a God!"
BROTHER, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul has flown,
Where tears are wip'd from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown.
From the burthen of the flesh,
And from care and fear releas'd, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.
The toilsome way thou'st travell❜d o'er,
And borne the heavy load;
But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach the bless'd abode.
Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,
Upon his Father's breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail.
And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said,
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful bless'd,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL.
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