Yea! once Immanuel's orphan'd cry His universe hath shaken It went up, single, echoless, It went up from the Holy's lips That of the lost, no son should use Those words of desolation; That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, And I, on Cowper's grave, should see THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. SIR EDWARD DENNY. SWEET was the hour, O Lord! to thee When a poor outcast heard thee there Thither she came e-but oh! her heart, Dreamt not of thee, nor thought to find The Hope of Israel there. Lord! 'twas thy power unseen that drew The stray one to that place, In solitude to learn of thee The secrets of thy grace. There Jacob's erring daughter found The water-brooks of life that make The weary thirst no more. And, Lord! to us as vile as she, Thy gracious lips have told That mystery of love reveal'd At Jacob's well of old. In spirit, Lord! we've sat with thee Of life and peace, and heard thee there Dead to the world, we dream no more No hope or rest in aught beside, But like Samaria's daughter, seek And find our all in Thee. NOVEMBER. REV. H. F. LYTE. THE autumn wind is moaning low the requiem of the year; The days are growing short again, the fields forlorn and sere; The sunny sky is waxing dim, and chill the hazy air, And tossing trees before the breeze are turning brown and bare. All nature and her children now prepare for rougher days: The squirrel makes his winter-bed and hazel hoard purveys, The sunny swallow spreads his wing to seek a brighter sky, And boding owl, with nightly howl, says cloud and storm are nigh. No more 'tis sweet to walk abroad among the evening dews: The flowers have fled from every path with all their scents and hues ; The joyous bird no more is heard, save where his slender song The robin drops, as meek he hops the wither'd leaves among. Those wither'd leaves, that slender song, a solemn truth convey In Wisdom's ear they speak aloud of frailty and decay: They say that man's apportion'd year shall have its winter too, Shall rise and shine, and then decline, as all around him do. They tell him all he has on earth, his brightest, dearest things, His loves and friendships, joys and hopes, have all their falls and springs A wave upon a moonlit sea, a leaf before the blast, A summer flower, an April shower, that gleams and hurries past. And be it so! I know it well: myself and all that's mine near. It only makes him feel with joy this earth is not his home; It sends him on from present ills to brighter hours to come; It bids him take with thankful heart whate'er his God may send, Content to go through weal or wo to glory in the end. Then murmur on, ye wintry winds! remind me of my doom; Ye lengthen'd nights! still image forth the darkness of the tomb. Eternal summer lights the heart where Jesus deigns to shine: I mourn no loss, I shun no cross, so Thou, O Lord! art mine. |