CHARLES WESLEY. STANZAS FROM "THE TRUE USE | Visit, then, this soul of mine, OF MUSIC." LISTED into the cause of sin, Pressed to obey the devilDrunken, or lewd, or light, the lay Flowed to the soul's undoingWidened, and strewed with flowers, the way Down to eternal ruin. Who on the part of God will rise, Come, let us try if Jesus' love THE ONLY LIGHT. CHRIST, whose glory fills the skies, Christ, the true, the only Light, Sun of Righteousness, arise, Triumph o'er the shades of night! Day-spring from on high, be near! Day-star, in my heart appear! Dark and cheerless is the morn Till Thy mercy's beams I see; Till they inward light impart, Glad my eyes and warm my heart. Pierce the gloom of sin and grief! Fill me, Radiancy Divine, Scatter all my unbelief! THINK not some knowledge rests with thee alone. To swell the mighty storehouse of things known. In vain the sea expostulates and raves; BLANCO WHITE. TO NIGHT. MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first | And lo! creation widened in man's parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed, Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent That to such countless orbs thou Thee when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear SOLITUDE. IT is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow; It is not grief that bids me moan, It is that I am all alone. In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home; Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast. Yet when the silent evening sighs, From vanity, What is this passing scene! A peevish April day! And all things fade away. And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. Oh, what is beauty's power? Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in the pall. The most beloved on earth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet; But now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. Then since this world is vain, And volatile and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat? With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; Sad monitress! I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun My race will run, And point to scenes of bliss that I only bow and say, My God, Thy never, never die. will be done. |