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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,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen,
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn bath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

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,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock.beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

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,
And yet he lived-oh, miserable man!

Cursing himself, in his dark tottering age;
Nor could the Pope release him from the ban
Of life, by prayer or weary pilgrimage.
•Such is the history of that haunted room,
Where duly in the silent midnight's gloom,
That mournful lady by the bed is placed
Weeping, with her rich rosary at her waist.'
I slept no more within that place of fear-

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.


INSPIRER and hearer of prayer,
Thou feeder and guardian of thine,
My all to thy covenant care
I sleeping and waking resign ;
If thou art my shield and my sun,
The night is no darkness to me,
And fast as my moments roll on,
They bring me but nearer to thee.
Thy minist'ring spirits descend
To watch while thy saints are asleep,
By day and by night they attend,
The heirs of salvation to keep ;

Bright seraphs dispatch'd from the throne,
Repair to the stations assign'd,
And angels elect are sent down,
To guard the elect of mankind.

Thy worship no interval knows,
Their fervour is still on the wing :
And while they protect my repose,
They chant to the praise of my King :
I too, at the season ordain's,
Their chorus for ever shall join,
And love, and adore, without end,
Their faithful Creator, and mine.



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;
And longs her eagle plumes to raise,
And lose herself in sight.


It is that hope with ardour glows,

To see him face to face,
Whose dying love no language knows

Sufficient art to trace.
It is that harass'd conscience feels

The pangs of struggling sin;
Sees, though afar, the hand that heals,

And ends her war within.
Oh! let me wing my hallowed flight

I'rom earth-born woe and care;
And soar beyond these realms of night,

My Saviour's bliss to share.


[REV. R. MANT.) Welcome thou peaceful dawn!

O'er field and wooded lawn
The wonted sound of busy toil is laid.

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
Duly along the church-way path repair:

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,
Sound his stupendous praise; whose greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.

Soft-roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flow'rs,
In mingled clouds to him whose sun exalts,
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him ;
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Great source of day! best image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,
From world to world the vital ocean round;
On nature write with every beam his praise.
The thunder rolls : be hush'd the prostrate world;
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks,
Retain the sound: the broad responsive low,
Ye valleys raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns;
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.

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.

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