THE TOMB OF JESUS. "Twas there the Ancient of Eternal Day, 123 The Son of God, slept in the borrowed grave; O soon may Shiloh bless that fated land! 1818. 124 RELIGION AND RUM. RELIGION AND RUM. An old Turk, learning that we were Americans, inquired if it was true that we sent out Missionaries to convert the Mohammedans, in ships laden with wine and spirits?-De Kay's Sketches of Turkey. THE Christian flouts the turbaned Turk; He sendeth hither proud ships with A blessing and a curse. His spangled flag flings out its stars Most bravely on our seas: And we beneath those stripes may pray, Or traffic-as we please. Can the same wells of Araby Yield sweet and bitter too? These dumb dogs, laugh they at our beards? "Ho! come, and win the gems of Heaven!" Then shout their fellows-" We have Rum, A TIME TO WEEP, A TIME TO REJOICE. 125 "Kneel to Messiah! yours are crowns; Reject-naught's left but hell;" "Here's fourth proof-real New England, sirs; Try, for we want to sell !" Prophet! how would these muftis smile, Should we to Christ incline; Not less their joy if we exchange Houris! be ours the precepts which Content the faithful Turk, Rather than creeds in which base gold A TIME TO WEEP-A TIME TO REJOICE. THERE is a time to weep, When dreams of earthly pleasure Are added to the heap Of faded, fruitless treasure: There is a time-how holy! When weeping at Christ's door, The sick soul's melancholy He heals with Sin no more! 126 A TIME TO WEEP, A TIME TO REJOICE. A time when for distress His comfortings are given; And for its nakedness, The garniture of heaven. There is a time of grief, When memory weeps in sorrow; Oblivion's draught would borrow: The soul, drawn out alone, The raptured heart ne'er feigneth, There is a time to mourn, When all is wild commotion; Of death's returnless ocean: There is a time of peace, What though the lamp then wasteth! The spirit seeks release, And new-born vigour tasteth: There is a time of joy, When the pale visage alters, THE DEPARTED WIFE. When songs the lips employ, While yet the accent falters. There is a time of sadness, The sand no longer numbers, When ransomed spirits sing, 127 THE DEPARTED WIFE. AND thou hast fled, fair spirit!-True, the boon |