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DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed on the face of the foe as he passed, And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
Linking him to life; and year on year passed by,
And he was old and feeble, and was known Whole days to kneel, praying that he might die.
His generation vanished one by one,
Cursing himself, in his dark tottering age;
And the next day we journeyed on to Rome, Where we abode a long and mournful year,
And laid my gentle mother in her tomb.
Bright seraphs dispatch'd from the throne,
Thy worship no interval knows,
When musing sorrow weeps the past,
And mourns the present pain, How sweet to think of peace at last,
And feel that death is gain!
'Tis not that murmuring thoughts arise,
And dread a Father's will; 'Tis not that meek submission flies,
And would not suffer still.
It is that heaven-taught faith surveys,
The paths to realms of light;
It is that hope with ardour glows,
To see him face to face,
Sufficient art to trace.
The pangs of struggling sin;
And ends her war within.
I'rom earth-born woe and care;
My Saviour's bliss to share.
[REV. R. MANT.) Welcome thou peaceful dawn!
O'er field and wooded lawn
And hark! the village bell!
Whose simple tinklings swell, Sweet as soft music, on the straw-roof'd shed, And bid the pious cottager prepare To keep the appointed rest, and seek the house of pray’r.
How goodly 'tis to see
The rustic family
The mother trim and plain
Leading her ruddy train, The father pacing slow with modest air. With honest heart and humble guise they come, To serve Almighty God, and bear his blessing home.
A secret world of wonders in thyself,
Soft-roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flow'rs,
Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song Bursts from the groves! and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men, to the deep organ join The long resounding voice, oft-breaking clear, At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardour rise to heaven.