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Thine is our spirit's trust!
Look through the gathering shadows of the grave!
Do we not perish? Father, hear, and save!
THE thoughts are strange that
While I look upward to thee.
crowd into my brain, It would seem
As if God pour'd thee from his "hollow hand,"
And hung his bow upon thine awful front ;
And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
“The sound of many waters ;" and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch his cent'ries in the eternal rocks.
"Deep calleth unto deep." And what are we,
That hear the question of that voice sublime?
Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung
From War's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side!
Yea, what is all the riot man can make
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar !
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him,
Who drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains?—a light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might!
THE SWALLOWS IN THE CHURCH.
What seek ye from the fields of heaven?
Ye have no need of prayer,
Ye have no sins to be forgiven !
Why perch ye here,
Where mortals to their Maker bend?
Can your pure spirits fear
The God ye never could offend?
The crimes for which we come to weep; Penance is not for you,
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.
To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays; Beneath the arch of heaven
To chirp away a life of praise.
Then spread each wing,
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing
In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands.
To note the consecrated hour,
Teach me the airy way,
And let me try your envied power.
On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.
"Twere heaven indeed,
Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On Nature's charms to feed,
And Nature's own great God adore!
WHERE's the blind child, so admirably fair,
With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair
That waves in ev'ry breeze? He's often seen
Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green,
With others match'd in spirit and in size,
Health on their cheeks, and rapture in their eyes.
That full expanse of voice to childhood dear,
Soul of their sports, is duly cherish'd here :
And, hark, that laugh is his, that jovial cry ;-
He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by,
And runs the giddy course with all his might,
A very child in everything but sight;
With circumscribed, but not abated powers,
Play, the great object of his infant hours.
he takes a noisy part,
In many a game
And shows the native gladness of his heart;
But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent,
The new suggestion and the quick assent;
The grove invites, delight fills every breast-
To leap the ditch, and seek the downy nest:
Away they start; leave balls and hoops behind,
And one companion leave-the boy is Blind!
His fancy paints their distant paths so gay,
That childish fortitude awhile gives way :
He feels his dreadful loss ;-yet short the pain,
Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again,
Pondering how best his moments to employ,
He sings his little songs of nameless joy ;
Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour,
And plucks by chance the white and yellow flower;
Smoothing their stems, while resting on his knees,
He binds a nosegay which he never sees;
Along the homeward path then feels his way,
Lifting his brow against the shining day,
And, with a playful rapture round his eyes,
Presents a sighing parent with the prize!
Он, happy, if he knew his happy state,
The swain who, free from business and debate,
Receives his easy food from Nature's hand,
And just returns of cultivated land.
No palace with a lofty gate he wants,
To admit the tide of early visitants,
With eager eyes devouring as they pass
The breathing figures of Corinthian brass;
No statues threaten from high pedestals,
No Persian arras hides his homely walls
With antic vests, which, through their shadowy fold,
Betray the streaks of ill-dissembled gold.
He boasts no wool where native white is dyed
With purple poison of Assyrian pride.
No costly drugs of Araby defile,
With foreign scents, the sweetness of his oil;
But easy quiet, a secure retreat,
A harmless life that knows not how to cheat,
With home-bred plenty the rich owner bless,
And rural pleasures crown his happiness.
Unvex'd with quarrels, undisturb'd by noise,
The country king his peaceful realm enjoys.