WINTER, A DIRGE. [BURNS.] THE wintry west extends his blast, While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day. The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,' Let others fear, to me more dear The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine! Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are thy will! Then all I want (Oh! do thou grant Since to enjoy thou dost deny, HYMN. [MILMAN.] OH! thou that wilt not break the bruised reed, The only balm of our afflictions, thou, Teach us to bear thy chastening wrath, O God! We bless thee, Lord, though far from Judah's land; Though our worn limbs are black with stripes and chains; Though for stern foes we till the burning sand; And reap, for other's joys, the summer plains; We bless thee, Lord, for thou art gracious still, Even though this last black drop o'erflow our cup of ill! We bless thee for our lost, our beauteous child; The tears, less bitter, she hath made us weep; The weary hours her graceful sports have 'guiled, And the dull cares her voice hath sung to sleep! She was the dove of hope to our lorn ark; The only star that made the stranger's sky less dark! Our dove is fall'n into the spoiler's net: Rude hands defile her plumes, so chastely white; To the bereaved their one soft star is set, And all above is sullen, cheerless night! But still we thank thee for our transient bliss, As when our Father to Mount Moriah led The blessing's heir, his age's hope and joy, Even thus our joyous child went lightly on; Her white foot bounded from the pavement stone Like some light bird from off the quiv'ring spray; And back she glanced, and smiled, in blameless glee, The cars, and helms, and spears, and mystic dance to see. By thee, O Lord, the gracious voice was sent That bade the sire his murtherous task forego; When to his home the child of Abraham went His mother's tears had scarce begun to flow. Alas! and lurks there, in the thicket's shade, The victim to replace our lost, devoted maid? Lord, even through thee to hope were now too bold; Yet 'twere to doubt thy mercy to despair. "Tis anguish, yet 'tis comfort, faint and cold, To think how sad we are, how blest we were: Oh Lord our God! why was she e'er our own? Ah, even our humblest prayers we make repine, Forgive, forgive, even should our full hearts break; The broken heart thou wilt not, Lord, despise : Ah! thou art still too gracious to forsake, Though thy strong hand so heavily chastise, Hear all our prayers, hear not our murmurs, Lord; And though our lips rebel, still make thyself ador'd. SONG OF TRIUMPH. [MILMAN.] SING to the Lord! let harp, and lute, and voice While the bright martyrs to their rest are borne; Sing to the Lord! their blood-stained course is run, And every head its diadem hath won, Rich as the purple of the summer morn; Sing to the Lord! for her in beauty's prime Sing to the Lord! it is not shed in vain, The blood of martyrs! from its freshening rain High springs the church like some fount-shadowing palm; The nations crowd beneath its branching shade, And wrapt within its deep embosoming calm Sing to the Lord! no more the angels fly The sound of fierce licentious sacrifice. Headless in dust the awe of nations lies; Sing to the Lord! from damp prophetic cave In human tones are wailing victims heard; [groan. Cowl their dark heads t'escape their children's dying Sing to the Lord! no more the dead are laid In cold despair beneath the cypress shade, To sleep the eternal sleep, that knows no morn: There, eager still to burst death's brazen bands, The angel of the resurrection stands: While, on its own immortal pinions borne, Following the breaker of the imprisoning tomb, Forth springs the exulting soul, and shakes away its gloom. Sing to the Lord! the desert rocks break out, |