Page images

Like faith shall whisper 'midst the gloom,
That yet again, in youthful bloom,
That dust shall smile in heaven!



Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid!
Star of the east the horizon adorning,
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining,
Low lies his bed with the beasts of the stall:
Angels adore him in slumber reclining,
Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all.

Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion,
Odours of Eden, and offerings divine:
Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation;
Vainly with gold would his favour secure;

Richer by far is the heart's adoration,
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor!

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid!
Star of the east the horizon adorning,
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.



Our Father sits on yonder throne,

Amidst the hosts above;
He reigns throughout the world alone,

He reigns the God of love.

He knew us when we knew him not,
Was with us, though unseen;

His favours came to us unsought,
His love has wonderous been.

He keeps us now, securely keeps,

Whatever foe assails;
With vigilance that never sleeps,

With power that never fails.

He gives us hope that we shall be,
Ere long, with him above;

That we shall all his glory see,
And celebrate his love.

Then let us, while we dwell below,

Obey our Father's voice;
To all his dispensations bow,

And in his name rejoice.
• . .

How sweet to hear him say at last,

'Ye blessed children come; The days of banishment are past,

And heaven is your home.'



And what is life ?—An hour-glass on the run,
A mist, retreating from the morning sun,

A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream,—
Its length ?—a minute's pause, a moment's thought:

And happiness ?—a bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing, shrinks to nought.

And what is hope ?—the puffing gale of morn,
That robs each floweret of its gem, and dies;

A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And what is death ?—Is still the cause unfound?
That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?

A long, and lingering sleep the weary crave,
And peace ?—where can its happiness abound?

Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.

Then what is life ?—When stript of its disguise,

A thing to be desired it cannot be;
Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes

Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.

'Tis but a trial all must undergo;

To teach unthankful mortals how to prize Such happiness vain man's desired to know,

Until he's called to meet it in the skies.

Clare. TO A TAPER.


Tis midnight—on the globe dead slumber sits,

And all is silence—in the hour of sleep; Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits,

In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep.

I wake alone to listen and to weep,
To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn;

And, as still memory does her vigils keep,

To think of days that never can return. By thy pale ray I raise my languid head,

My eye surveys the solitary gloom; And the sad tear, unmixed with dread,

Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. Like thee I wane ;—like thine my life's last ray Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.

H. K. White.

« PreviousContinue »