I must be happy then,
From pain and death you say I shall be free,
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again!"
“ Brother—the little spot
I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers,
Forget it not!
Plant there some box or pine;
Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
Sister, my young rose tree
That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give to thee.
And when its roses bloom
I shall be gone away, my short life done;
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb ?"
"Now, mother, sing the tune
You sang last night; I'm weary and must sleep.
Who was it called my name? Nay, do not weep,
You'll all come soon!"
Morning spread over earth her rosy wings-
d that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
on his couch asleep. The gentle air
hrough the open window, freighted with
The savoury labours of the early spring-
He breathed it not: the laugh of passers by
Join'd like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers. HE WAS DEAD!
WHEN marshall'd on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone, of all the train,
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the star of Bethlehem.
Once on the raging seas I rode,
The storm was loud-the night was dark,
The ocean yawn'd—and rudely blow'd
The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck, I ceas'd the tide to stem ;
When suddenly a star arose-
It was the star of Bethlehem.
It was my guide, my light, my all;
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm, and danger's thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.
I must be happy then,
From pain and death you say I shall be free,
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again!"
"Brother-the little spot
I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers,
Forget it not!
Plant there some box or pine;
Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine."
"Sister, my young rose tree
That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give to thee.
And when its roses bloom
I shall be gone away, my short life done ;
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb ?”
"Now, mother, sing the tune
You sang last night; I'm weary and must sleep.
Who was it called my name? Nay, do not weep,
You'll all come soon!"
Morning spread over earth her rosy wings—
d that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
on his couch asleep. The gentle air
hrough the open window, freighted with
The savoury labours of the early spring—
He breathed it not: the laugh of passers by
Join'd like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers. HE WAS DEAD!
WHEN marshall'd on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone, of all the train,
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the star of Bethlehem.
Once on the raging seas I rode,
The storm was loud-the night was dark,
The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd
The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck, I ceas'd the tide to stem;
When suddenly a star arose-
It was the star of Bethlehem.
It was my guide, my light, my all;
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm, and danger's thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem, For ever and for evermore,
The Star!-The Star of Bethlehem!
ALL ARE THE WORK OF HIS HAND.
THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their Great Original proclaim!
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Doth his Creator's power display;
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale ;
And, nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice nor sound
Amidst the radiant orbs be found ?-
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