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place was one of the greatest cities in the world. I see the scoff arrested, his cheek pale, his lip quivering, and his heart quaking with fear, as the ruined city cries out to him in a voice loud and powerful as that of one risen from the dead; though he would not believe Moses and the prophets, he believes the hand-writing of God himself in the desolation and eternal ruin around him.
OH, with what glory comes and goes the year!-
The buds of spring-those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times-enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and, with
A sober gladness, the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales
The gentle wind-a sweet and passionate wooer-
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up
Within the solemn woods of ash deep crimsoned,
And silver beach, and maple yellow leaved,-
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves; the purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds-
A winter bird-comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud,
From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings:
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
O, what a glory does this world put on For him that, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent: For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings; He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.
TRUE happiness has no localities,
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb ;
Where duty goes she goes; with justice goes;
And goes with meekness, charity, and love.
Where'er a tear is dried, a wounded heart
Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed, or injury
Repeated oft as oft by love forgiven;
Where'er an evil passion is subdued,
Or virtue's feeble embers fanned; where'er
A sin is heartily abjured and left;
Where'er a pious act is done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish ;-
There is a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane,
Where happiness descending sits and smiles.
THOUGHTS IN A PLACE OF WORSHIP.
AND here we come and sit, time after time,
And call it social worship. Is it thus?
Oh, Thou! whose searching, all-pervading eye
Scans every secret movement of the heart,
And sees us as we are. Why mourns my soul
On these occasions? Why so dead and cold
My best affections? I have found thee oft
In my more secret seasons-in the fields,
And in my chamber; even in the stir
Of outward occupations has my mind
Been drawn to thee, and found thy presence sweet.
But here I seek in vain, and rarely find
Thy ancient promise to the few that wait
In singleness upon thee, reach to us.
Most sweet it is to feel the unity
Of soul-cementing love gathering in one,
Flowing from heart to heart, and like a cloud
Of mingled incense rising to the throne