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Yet look on—the crystal city
Linger not—the stream is narrow,
Soul adieu—this gloomy sojourn .
Holds thy captive feet no more;
Flesh is dropt, and sin forsaken,
Soitow done, and weeping o'er;
Thro' the tears thy friends are shedding,
Smiles of hope serenely shine;
Not a friend remains behind thee,
But would change his lot for thine.
Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,
Unuttered or expressed; The motion of a hidden fire,
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,
The falling of a tear;
When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try: Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air;
His watchword at the gates of death;
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
While Angels in their songs rejoice,
The saints in prayer appear as one
In word, and deed,, and mind,
Their fellowship they find.
Nor prayer is made on earth alone,
The Holy Spirit pleads;
For sinners intercedes.
O thou by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way;
Lord teach us haw to pray.
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.
Pale and cold is the cheek that my kisses oft pressed,
For the soul, which its innocent glances confessed,
No more shall the accents, whose tones were more dear Than the sweetest of sounds even music can make,
In notes full of tenderness fall on my ear;
If I catch them in dreams, all is still when I wake!
No more the gay smiles that those features displayed,
Yet, though these, and much more, be now covered in
However enchantingly flattering and fair,
Were the hopes, that for thee, I had ventured to build, Can a frail, finite mortal presume to declare
That the future those hopes would have ever fulfilled?
In the world thou hast left, there is much to allure
Hadst thou lived, would thy own have been equally pure,
Temptation, or sooner or later, had found thee;
'Till the dark clouds of vice, gathering gloomily round thee, Had enwrapt thee for ever in horror and night.
But now, in the loveliest bloom of the soul,
While the heart yet was pangless, and true, and un-
Ere the world one vain wish by its witcheries stole,
Like a dew-drop, kissed off by the sun's morning beam,
Thy soul seemed to come down to earth, in a dream,
THE HOUR OF DISTRESS.
O 'tis not while the fairy-breeze fans the green ocean,
And 'tis not in prosperity's hour the devotion,