There like the nightingale she pours
Her solitary lays;
Nor asks a witness of her song,
Nor thirsts for human praise.
Author and Guardian of my life,
Sweet source of light divine,
And-all harmonious names in one-
My Saviour-thou art mine.
What thanks I owe thee, and what love,
A boundless, endless store,
Shall echo through the realms above
When time shall be no more.
How painfully pleasing the fond recollection
Of youthful connections and innocent joy,
When, blessed with parental advice and affection,
Surrounded with mercies, with peace from on high.
I still view the chair of my sire and my mother,
The seats of their offspring as ranged on each hand,
And that richest of books, which excelled every other,
That Family Bible, that lay on the stand;
The old-fashioned Bible, the dear, blessed Bible,
The Family Bible, that lay on the stand.
That Bible, the volume of God's inspiration,
At morn and at evening could yield us delight, And the prayer of our sire was a sweet invocation, For mercy by day, and for safety through night.
Our hymns of thanksgiving, with harmony swelling,
All warm from the heart of a family band,
Half raised us from earth to that rapturous dwelling,
Described in the Bible that lay on the stand:
That richest of books which excelled every other-
The Family Bible, that lay on the stand.
Ye scenes of tranquillity, long have we parted;
My hope's almost gone, and my parents no more;
In sorrow and sadness I live broken-hearted,
And wander unknown on a far distant shore.
Yet how can I doubt a dear Saviour's protection,
Forgetful of gifts from his bountiful hand;
Oh, let me with patience receive his correction,
And think of the Bible that lay on the stand;
That richest of books, which excelled every other-
The Family Bible, that lay on the stand.
THY neighbour? it is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless,
Whose aching heart or burning brow
Thy soothing hand may press.
Thy neighbour? "Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,
Whom hunger sends from door to door-
Go thou, and succour him.
Thy neighbour? 'Tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain—
Go thou, and comfort him.
Thy neighbour? 'Tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem;
Widow and orphan, helpless left;
Go thou, and shelter them.
Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave—
Go thou, and ransom him.
Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favoured than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,
Thy brother, or thy son.
Oh, pass not, pass not heedlessly,
Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery;
Go, share thy lot with him.
ON THE DEATH OF A LOVELY INFANT.
WERT thou a stranger from the world of bliss ?
Some little seraph wandering from thy sphere,
Which came to tarry for a night in this
And with the light of morn to disappear?
Tell us, sweet babe, what made thee lose thy way
Amidst those stars which deck the azure sky?
Tell us, sweet babe, why with the morning's ray
Thy spirit wing'd again its flight on high?
Did something vex thee in this world below?
Or did some angel trace thy wandering path?
And to prevent thy days and nights of woe,
Allured thee back beyond the stream of death.
Yet, thou art happy, though thy mouldering bark
Must lie for ages on time's stormy shore,
Where all is lone, and desolate, and dark,
But where its loudest tempests vex no more.
Yes, thou art happy, and thy pure delight,
Recalls no more thy silent wanderings here;
For every sin of that short fleeting night,
Was laid on One, and paid with many a tear.
Oh! 'twas enough, poor wanderer of an hour,
To touch time's verge and breathe its very sigh;
To make thee pass death's vail, whose dark'ning lower
Must open up the portals of the sky.
PRUDENT SIMPLICITY.
THAT thou may'st injure no man, dove-like be; And serpent-like, that none may injure thee.
COME, my fond, fluttering heart,
Come, struggle to be free:
Thou and the world must part,
However hard it be.
My trembling spirit owns it just,
But cleaves yet closer to the dust.
Ye tempting sweets, forbear;
Ye dearest idols, fall.
My love ye must not share ;
Jesus shall have it all.
'Tis bitter pain, 'tis cruel smart,
But ah! thou must consent, my heart.
Ye fair enchanting throng,
Ye golden dreams, farewell!
Earth has prevailed too long,
And now I break the spell;
Ye cherished joys of early years ;—
Jesus, forgive these parting tears.
But must I part with all?
My heart still fondly pleads;
Yes-Dagon's self must fall,
It beats, it throbs, it bleeds:
Is there no balm in Gilead found,
To soothe and heal the smarting wound?
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