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IKE the gale, that fighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
Though the flowers have sunk in death; So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in music's breath.
Music! oh how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell! Why should Feeling ever speak,
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Love's are e'en more false than they ;
HERE the bright Seraphim, in burning
row, Their loud uplifted angel trumpets
ND storied windows, richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light;
In service high and anthems clear,
S, one by one, stars on the Eastern space
Come forth, while daylight fades,
Thus, while death's deepening shades Darken around thy steps in stranger lands, Sweet awful memories of thine own St. John Wake round thee; martyred Peter beckoning stands, And stirs again the Spirit's benison Given through his hands ; upon the self-fame road, Lo, the bright footsteps of the death-bound Paul! Thy soul is fanned to burning hardihood : We hear in thee the Bridegroom's warning call, And full of glowing life thy dying accents fall!
ITH age invested, thou didft mount
this be just ?
- In His mighty
HE child of tears, the child of tears,
Think not that nought is well below,
Despair not of thy wayward son,
Grief-wasted Mother, go thy way,
* The above lines are a sort of paraphrase from the confefsions of St. Augustine, 1. iii. c. ult. by the late F. Mackenzie.
IS sun went down in cloudless skies,
the morn to rise
To vanish back again to night;
In that eternal day.
JEEP no more, woful shepherds, weep no
So finks the day-star in the ocean bed,