A CHILD'S HYMN FOR THE CLOSE OF THE WEEK. 113
But this I know, by flood or wild,
Thou seest me night and day,
And grievest o'er the wayward child
That goes from thee astray.
Through all this week thy kindly sway,
Has round me been for good-
At task or play, by night or day,
In wilderness or wood.
And when I lay me down to sleep,
Thy guardian shield be spread;
And angel of thy presence keep
A watch around my bed.
O teach me to adore thy name,
For all thy love to me;
Thy guardian goodness to proclaim,
Thy truth and verity!
And through the darkness of the night,
Watch o'er my thoughts that stray,
And lift mine eyes upon the light
Of a new Sabbath-day.
And in a holy frame employ
Thy day, due praise to give,
To Him who wept that I might joy
And died, that I might live:
Who rose again and went above,
That sinful ones like me,
Might glory in redeeming love,
For all thy blessings shower'd arouna
My kindred and my race,
I bless thee, Lord, but most of all,
For riches of thy grace.
of mind, and health of frame,
And joys-a mighty store,
Accept my thanks, and to thy name
Be glory evermore !
THE DEAD FRIEND.
NOT to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Descend to contemplate
The form that once was dear!
The Spirit is not there
Which kindled that dead eye,
Which throbb'd in that cold heart,
Which in that motionless hand
Hath met thy friendly grasp;
The Spirit is not there!
It is but lifeless, perishable flesh
That moulders in the grave;
Earth, air, and water's ministering particles
Now to the elements
Resolved, their uses done!
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Follow thy friend beloved
The Spirit is not there!
Often together have we talk'd of death-
How sweet it were to see
All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the Cherubim,
To view the depth of Heaven!
O!--thou hast first
Begun the travel of Eternity--
I gaze amid the stars,
And think that thou art there,
Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee-And we have often said how sweet it were, With unseen ministry of angel power,
To watch the friends we loved
-We did not err;
Sure I have felt thy presence! thou hast given
A birth to holy thought,
Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure→ We did not err;
Our best affections here,
They are not like the toys of infancy—
The Soul outgrows them not,
We do not cast them off:
Oh, if it could be so,
It were indeed a dreadful thing to die!
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,
Follow thy friend beloved!
But in the lonely hour,
But in the evening walk,
Think that he companies thy solitude;
Think that he holds with thee
Mysterious intercourse;
And though Remembrance wake a tear,
There will be joy in grief.
ADDRESS TO SCEPTICS.
ARE these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,
Lights of the world, and demi-gods of fame?
Is this your triumph-this your proud applause,
Children of truth, and champions of her cause?
For this hath science searched, on weary wing,
By shore and sea-each mute and living thing!
Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep,
To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep?
Or round the cope her living chariot driven
And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of heaven!
Oh! star-eyed science, hast thou wandered there,
To waft us home the message of despair!
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit,
Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit!
Ah me! the laurell'd wreath that murder rears,
Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,
As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head.
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain?
I smile on death, if heavenward hope remain !
But, if the warring winds of nature's strife
Be all the faithless charter of my life,
If chance awaked, inexorable power,
This frail and feverish being of an hour;
Doomed o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep,
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,
To know delight but by her parting smile,
And toil, and wish, and weep a little while;
Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain!
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom;
And sing, ye stars, that light me to the tomb!
Truth, ever lovely-since the world began,
The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man,-
How can thy words from balmy slumber start
Reposing virtue pillowed on the heart!
Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled,
And that were true which nature never told,
Let wisdom smile not on her conquered field;
No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed!
Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,
The doom that bars us from a better fate;
But, sad as angels for the good man's sin,
Weep to record, and blush to give it in!
GOD, THE ONLY COMFORTER.
O, THOU! Who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceiv'd and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too!
Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom,
Our Peace branch from above?
Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day.
THE bird let loose in eastern skies,
When hast'ning fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam.
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