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My wondering infants crowd to gaze at thee,
Fair sprig, with looks of love, that seem to say
In whispers to my heart,
O is not this our home?
May I like thee at least be loved, and live
For others' good, then die, but not unblest,
If one lost soul but, learn
From me that heaven is home!
THE PERSECUTOR, JOURNEYING TO DAMASCUS.
Whose is that sword—that voice and eye of flame-
That heart of inextinguishable ire ?
Who bears the dungeon keys, and bonds, and fire ?
Along his dark and withering path he came-
Death in his looks, and terror in his name,
Tempting the might of heaven's eternal Sire.
Lo! The Light shone!-the sun's veiled beams expire-
A Saviour's self a Saviour's lips proclaim !
Whose is yon form, stretched on the earth's cold bed,
With smitten soul and tears of agony
Mourning the past? Bowed is the lofty head-
Rayless the orbs that flashed with victory.
Over the raging waves of human will
The Saviour's spirit walked--and all was still.
[s. C. HALL.] Oh! that I were as in the days
Gone by-when God my footsteps led ; When safe through danger's darkest ways
I walked—for He around me shed That light-his own peculiar lightWhich bade me flourish in his sight. The eye that saw me, brighter grew;
Around me all my children came; Men deemed me righteous, for they knew
That all who heard me blessed my name; With fear and love men looked on meI lived and flourished like a tree; A tree that by the waters grew,
The sun was on me all the day, Decking my blossoms, and the dew
All night upon my branches lay. To me the poor and sorrowing cried,
But never cried to me in vain; And those who had no hope beside
Were calmed and comforted again; The lone, and wretched, and oppressed, Found me their joy, support, and rest. And now because my God hath taught
My soul to loathe its dwelling-place,
I live, despised and set at nought
By children of a worthless race;
My harp is tuned to sorrows deep,
My voice, the voice of those who weep.
And why is this ?-If I had left
The widow in her depth of woe,
Or seen, unmoved, her babes bereft,
Or made the tears of orphans flow;
If I had worshipped gold, or said
To wealth, ' My hope is placed on thee!'
If earthly glory ere had led
My heart to that which should not be;
If I had been the first in strife-
Or cursed e'en those who sought my life ;-
Then Job, the desolate, had known,
Why thus the anger of the Lord,
Had left him friendless, wretched, lone,
A broken reed, a loosened cord,
Whose days are numbered, and whose breath
Is scarce enough to ask for death.
[scott.] But hear the word divine, to me convey'd, Than pearls more precious, in the midnight shade; Amidst th' emotions which from visions rise, When more than nature's sleep seals human eyes. Fear seiz'd my soul, the hand of borror strook My shuddering flesh, and every member shook. For a strong wind with rushing fury pass'd So near, so loud, blast whirling after blast, That
hair started at each stiff'ning pore, And stood erect. At once the wild uproar
Was hush'd; a presence burst upon my sight
(I saw no shape) in majesty of light:
Voice follow'd, and celestial accents broke,
Which in these terms their awful dictates spoke:
• Is God arraign'd? absolv'd man's sinful dust?
his Maker? and his Judge less just?
Lo, he discerns, discern’d by him alone,
Spots on the sanctities around his throne :
Nor trusts his noble ministers of fame,
To yield him service unalloy'd with blame.
Yet, innocent of blame shall man be found ?
Tenants of clay, and reptiles of the ground!
Crush'd like the moth, these beings of a day
With unregarded waste are swept away :
Their honours perish, and themselves descend
Fools to the grave, and thoughtless of their end.'
This, too, I've seen, this witness'd when alone
Breath'd o'er my ears, in hollow whispering tone.
'Twas midnight deep-the world was hush'd to rest,
And airy visions every brain possess'd :
O'er all my frame a horror crept severe,
An ice that shiver'd every bone with fear,
Before my face a spirit saw I swim-
Erect uprose my hair o’er every limb;
It stood--the spectre stood—to sight display'd,
Yet trac'd I not the image I survey'd :
"Twas silence dead-no breath the torpor broke-
When thus in hollow voice the vision spoke :
* Shall man bis Maker's piercing ken endure ?
Before his God shall man be just and puro?
Lo, his own servants falter in his eyes,
His trustiest angels are not always wise.
What are the dwellers then in tents of clay,
Sprung from the dust, that into dust decay ?
Before the moth they fail! with easier strife
Beat down and plunder'd of their little life;
From morn to noon they perish-to the ground
Unnotic'd drop, and quit their fluttering round;
Their total sum of wisdom, when they die,
An empty boast, a mockery and lie.'
Music of the bough that waves
As the wind plays lightly o'er;
Music of the stream that laves,
Pebbly marge or rocky shore;
Sweet your melody to me,
Singing to the soul—the tone
Exceeds by far the minstrelsy
Of halls wherein bright harpers shone;
ye attune His praise, who made
The wondrous perfect frame we view,
Each hill, and plain, and leafy shade,
of blue :
Ye seem to sing,– How great the arm
Of that high God who reigns above;
Him worship! but without alarm;
His dearest, best known name is Love.'