If in climes of the blessed affections unite, THE VIGIL. 'Tis night; from beauteous Palestine Gone is the boasting Pharisee, The prayer and daily alms are o'er, The unbelieving Sadducee Offends the sacred court no more. Hushed are the strains that bade rejoice, But where is Jesus? where is He The object of rebuke and scorn? No follower of the Lord is here; For Him no eyes their vigils keep; RETROSPECTION. 'Tis sweet in seclusion to look on the past, In life's sober twilight recal the day-dream; To mark the smooth sunshine and skies overcast, That chequered our course as we moved down the stream. For there yet is a charm in retracing the morn When the star of our pleasure beamed brightly awhile, And the tear that in infancy watered the thorn, How faint is the touch, no perspective bestowing, With cheerfulness then, Retrospection! I'll greet thee, Though the night-shade be twined in thy bouquet of sweets, In the eve of reflection this bosom will meet thee, While to the dear vision of childhood it beats. And the heart that in confidence seeks its review, And finds the calm impress of innocence there, With rapture anticipates happiness new, In hope yet to come, it possesses a share. F If in climes of the blessed affections unite, THE VIGIL. 'Tis night; from beauteous Palestine Gone is the boasting Pharisee, The prayer and daily alms are o'er, The unbelieving Sadducee Offends the sacred court no more. Hushed are the strains that bade rejoice, Lost is the maid and matron's voice But where is Jesus? where is He The object of rebuke and scorn? No follower of the Lord is here; For Him no eyes their vigils keep; They that have mingled tear with tear, Closed is each ear to human moan, Save His, who wakes to bitter care; THE BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT. WHAT story to posterity's dull ear Thou crumblest-fallest,-not the cenotaph WHAT DOST THOU HERE? O WHY should care disturb thy breast, These cares can never yield thee rest, Say, is this world to thee so dear? Why shouldst thou prize these fleeting joys, And build thy heaven on earth? Ah, soon each false enjoyment cloys, And vain is empty mirth; Say, can they bring true pleasure near? Why shouldst thou deem thy lot unkind, Is He not all? Is heaven not dear? Say, weeping soul, "What dost thou here?" |