From Polynesia's coral shore
Pass to New Zealand's isle the beams; And where Canadian tempests roar,
Wake the Red Indian from his dreams.
'Tis but the dawn! On many a coast
The shades of death are brooding still; Millions in sin and error lost
Are led by Satan at his will.
Lord! hasten on the promised time
When Christ shall call the world his own,
And heavenly truth in every clime
Shall fix its undisputed throne.
"Is it a time to receive money, and to receive garments, and oliveyards, and vineyards, and sheep, and oxen, and men-servants, and maid-servants?
Is this a time to plant and build,
Add house to house, and field to field,
When round our walls the battle lowers,
When mines are hid beneath our towers,
And watchful foes are stealing round
To search and spoil the holy ground?
Is this a time for moonlight dreams
Of love and home by mazy streams—
For fancy with her shadowy toys,
Aërial hopes and pensive joys,
While souls are wandering far and wide,
And curses swarm on every side?
No! rather steel thy melting heart
To act the martyr's sternest part—
To watch, with firm unshrinking eye,
Thy darling visions as they die,
Till all bright hopes and hues of day
Have faded into twilight gray.
Yes! let them pass without a sigh;
And if the world seem dull and dry,
If long and sad thy lonely hours,
And winds have rent thy sheltering bowers,
Bethink thee what thou art and where-
A sinner in a life of care!
The fire of God is soon to fall
(Thou know'st it) on this earthly ball:
Full many a soul, the price of blood,
Mark'd by th' Almighty's hand for good,"
To utter death that hour shall sweep—
And will the saints in Heaven dare weep
Then in His wrath shall God uproot
The trees He set, for lack of fruit,
And drown in rude tempestuous blaze
The towers His hand had deign'd to raise.
In silence, ere that storm begin,
Count o'er His mercies, and thy sin.
Pray only that thy aching heart,
From visions vain content to part,
Strong for love's sake its wo to hide,
May cheerful wait the cross beside-
Too happy if, that dreadful day,
Thy life be given thee for a prey.
Snatch'd sudden from th' avenging rod,
Safe in the bosom of thy God,
How wilt thou then look back, and smile
On thoughts that bitterest seem'd erewhile,
And bless the pangs that made thee see
This was no world of rest for thee!
ON READING, WITH DEEP EMOTION, THE NARRATIVE OF OUR SAVIOUR'S SUFFERINGS IN ST MATTHEW'S GOSPEL.
THE AUTHORESS OF THE MORAL OF FLOWERS."
BACK to your fount, ye tears! unless you flow
From some pure source which God himself has blest—
From consecrated depths of love and wo,
Which only lie within the contrite breast.
Else ye but mock me with the gracious sign
Of godly sorrow, while my heart remains
Cold as the iceberg which reflects the shine
Of glorious noon, and yet no warmth retains.
But if that heart unto the cross doth cling,
Mourning the sins which yet it hopes forgiven-
If such indeed your source, then ever spring,
For, oh! when man thus weeps, there's joy in Heaven.
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