Page images

Where is the blessedness I knew

When first I saw the Lord? Where is the soul-refreshing view

Of Jesus and his word?

What peaceful hours I once gnjoyed,

How sweet their memory still; But they have left an aching void,

The world can never fill.

Return, O holy Dove, return,

Sweet messenger of rest;
I hate the sins that made Thee mourn,
And drove Thee from my breast.

The dearest idol I have knows,

Whate'er that idol be,
Help me to tear it from thy throne,

And worship only Thee.

So shall my walk be close with God,

Calm and serene my frame;
So purer light shall mark the road

That leads me to the Lamb.



V'hen to their airy halls, my father's voice
ihall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
Alien, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
)r, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
)li! may my shade behold no sculptured urns

To mark the spot where earth to earth returns;

No lengthened scroll of virtue and renown;

My epitaph shall be my name alone:

[f that with honour fail to crown my clay,

Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay;

That, only that, shall single out the spot,

By that remembered, or with that forgot.



When in the hours of lonely woe,
I give my sorrows leave to flow;
And anxious fear, and dark distrust,
Weigh down my spirit to the dust.

When not even friendship's gentle aid
Can heal the wounds the world has made,
O this shall check each rising sigh,
That Jesus is for ever nigh.

His counsels and upholding care,
My safety and my comfort are;
And he shall guide me all my days,
Till glory crown the work of grace.

Jesus! in whom but thee alone
Can I repose my trust, my love?
And shall an earthly object be
Loved in comparison with thee?

My flesh is hastening to decay,

Soon shall this world have passed away;

And what can mortal friends avail,

When heart, and strength, and life shall fail?

But, oh! be thou, my Saviour, nigh,
And I will triumph while I die;
My strength, my portion, is divine,
And Jesus is for ever mine.



When musing sorrow weeps the past,
And mourns the present pain;

How sweet to think of peace at last,
And feel that death is gain!

Tis not that murm'ring thoughts arise,

And dread a father's will;
'Tis not that meek submission flies,

And would not suffer still.

It is that heaven-taught faith surveys, The path to realms of light;

And longs her eagle plumes to raise, And lose herself in sight.

It is that hope with ardour glows,

So see Him face to face, Whose dying love no language knows

Sufficient art to trace.

It is that harassed conscience feels

The pangs of struggling sin;
Sees, though afar, the hand that heals,

And ends her war within.

Oh! let me wing my hallowed flight

From earth-born woe and care;
And soar beyond these realms of night,

My Saviour's bliss to share.




. The shout grew loud—

A varied scene the changeful vision showed, For, where the ocean mingled with the cloud, A gallant navy stemmed the billows broad. From mast and stern St George's symbol flowed, Blent with the silver cross to Scotland dear; Mottling the sea their landward barges rowed, And flashed the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear, And the wild beach returned the seaman's jovial cheer.


« PreviousContinue »