Behold in yon desolate cell, where reclining
On earth, lone and cheerless, the captive is laid;
No beam through the gloom of his dungeon is shining,
No accents of friendship breathe solace or aid :
And yet, though the bands of the base have enchain'd him,
His soul bows submissive and meek to the rod;
From friends who deserted, and foes who disdain'd him,
He sought for a refuge-he fled to his God.
Then mark, down his wan cheek, the silent tear stealing,
The pale lips that quiver convulsive in prayer;
The deep sigh that bursts from his bosom revealing
The sorrow that springs from true penitence there :
And marvel no more, why with angels consenting,
The saints to their Lord songs of rapture should raise ;
They gaze from their thrones on a sinner repenting,
And wake to fresh transports of wonder and praise.
HIGH on a throne of burnish'd gold,
With rays of Godhead crown'd,
Jehovah sat; His thunders roll'd,
And glory sparkled round.
His flowing train, of glittering white,
The spacious temple fill'd;
The angels, dazzled at the sight,
With wings their faces veil'd.
Around the throne, in burning row,
The six-wing'd seraphs stood;
While millions, flying to and fro,
Tun'd all their harps to God.
"Thrice holy, holy Lord," they cry,
"The God of Sabaoth Thou;
Thy glory fills the worlds on high,
And fills the world below."
GOD of my life! to Thee I call,
Afflicted at Thy feet I fall;
When the great water-floods prevail
Leave not my trembling heart to fail.
Friend of the friendless and the faint!
Where shall I lodge my deep complaint?
Where, but with Thee, whose open door
Invites the helpless and the poor!
Did ever mourner plead with Thee,
And Thou refuse that mourner's plea ?
Does not the word still fix'd remain,
That none shall seek Thy face in vain?
That were a grief I could not bear,
Didst Thou not hear and answer pray'r;
But a prayer-hearing, answ'ring God,
Supports me under ev'ry load.
Fair is the lot that's cast for me;
I have an Advocate with thee:
They whom the world caresses most,
Have no such privilege to boast.
Poor tho' I am, despised, forgot,
Yet God, my God, forgets me not;
And he is safe, and must succeed,
For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead.
In ardent sanctitude and pious deeds,
And chief in Woman charities prevail
That soothe when sorrows or disease assail.
As dropping balm medicinal instils
Health when we pine, her tears alleviate ills;
And the moist emblems of her pity flow
As heav'n relented with the wat❜ry bow.
Let pearls embellish tresses, dew the morn,
But beauties more divine the maid adorn,
When mourning him she loved, her tender tear,
That else had blest his bed, imbathes his bier.
Ask the poor pilgrim on this convex cast,
His grizzled locks distorted in the blast ;
Ask him what accent soothes, what hand bestows
The cordial bev'rage, garment, and repose;
Oh, he will dart a spark of ancient flame,
And clasp his tremulous hands, and Woman name !
Peruse the sacred volume, Him who died
Her kiss betray'd not, nor her tongue denied.
While even the apostle left Him to His doom,
She linger'd round His cross and watched His tomb.
THOU art gone to the grave !-but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;
The Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee,
And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom!
Thou art gone to the grave !-we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may die, for the SINLESS has died!
Thou art gone to the grave !-and, its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long;
But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on thy waking,
And the sound which thou heardst was the Seraphim's song! Thou art gone to the grave !-but we will not deplore thee, Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian, and guide; He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, And Death has no sting, for the Saviour has died.
STAR of the morn, whose placid ray,
Beam'd mildly o'er yon sacred hill,
While whisp'ring zephyrs seem'd to say,
As silence slept, and earth was still,
Hail, harbinger of gospel light!
Dispel the shades of nature's night!
I saw thee rise on Salem's towers,
I saw thee shine on gospel lands,
And Gabriel summon'd all his powers
And wak'd to ecstasy his bands;
Sweet cherubs hail'd thy rising ray,
And sang the dawn of gospel day!
Shine, lovely star, on every clime,
For bright thy peerless beauties be;
Gild with thy beam the wing of time,
And shed thy rays from sea to sea;
Then shall the world from darkness rise,
Millennial glories cheer our eyes!
HYMN FOR THE SONS OF THE CLERGY.
How blest those olive plants that grow
Beneath the altar's sacred shade,
Where streams of fresh instruction flow,
And Comfort's humble board is spread.
'Twas thus the swallow rear'd her young,
Secure within the house of God,
Of whom the royal prophet sung,
When banish'd from that blest abode.
When, like the swallow's tender brood,
They leave the kind paternal dome,
On weary wing to seek their food,
Or find in other climes a home;
Where'er they roam, where'er they rest,
Through all the varied scenes of life,
Whether with tranquil plenty blest,
Or doom'd to share the deadly strife,
Still may the streams of grace divine
Glide softly near their devious way;
And faith's fair light serenely shine,
To change their darkness into day.
Stil! may they with fraternal love
Each other's shield and aid become; And while through distant realms they rove, Remember still their childhood's home; The simple life, the frugal fare,
The kind parental counsels given. The tender love, the pious care,
That early winged their hopes to heaven. And when the evening shades decline, And when life's toilsome task is o'er, May they each earthly wish resign,
And holier, happier climes explore. And when the faithful shepherds view Each ransom'd flock around them spread, How will they bless the plants that grew Beneath the altar's sacred shade!
BEHOLD the Saviour on the cross,
A spectacle of woe!
See from His agonizing wounds
The blood incessant flow;
Till death's pale ensigns o'er His cheek
And trembling lips were spread;
Till light forsook His closing eyes,
And life His drooping head!
'Tis finished-was His latest voice,
These sacred accents o'er,
He bow'd His head, gave up the ghost,
And suffered pain no more.
'Tis finish'd-the Messiah dies
For sins, but not His own;
The great redemption is complete,
And Satan's power o'erthrown.
'Tis finished-all His groans are past;
His blood, His pains, and toils
Have fully vanquished our foes,
And crown'd Him with their spoils.
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