WINTER,

A DIRGE.

[BURNS.]

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

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,'
The joyless winter-day,

Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:

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
This one request of mine!)

Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

HYMN.

[MILMAN.]

OH! thou that wilt not break the bruised reed,
Nor heap fresh ashes on the mourner's brow,
Nor rend anew the wounds that inly bleed,

The only balm of our afflictions, thou,

Teach us to bear thy chastening wrath, O God!
To kiss with quivering lips-still humbly kiss thy rod!

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,
Yet, Lord, to scourge our sins remain'd no way but this?

As when our Father to Mount Moriah led

The blessing's heir, his age's hope and joy,
Pleased, as he roam'd along with dancing tread,
Chid his slow sire, the fond, officious boy,
And laughed in sport to see the yellow fire
Climb up the turf-built shrine, his destined funeral
pyre.

Even thus our joyous child went lightly on;
Bashfully sportive, timorously gay,

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:
To speak of her is wretchedness, and yet
It were a grief more deep and bitterer to forget!

Oh Lord our God! why was she e'er our own?
Why is she not our own-our treasure still?
We could have pass'd our heavy years alone.
Alas! is this to bow us to thy will?

Ah, even our humblest prayers we make repine,
Nor, prostrate thus on earth, our hearts to thee
resiga.

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
Up to the expanding gates of Heaven rejoice,

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 the triumphant champions of their God,
While burn their mounting feet along their sky-ward
road.

Sing to the Lord! for her in beauty's prime
Snatch'd from this wintery earth's ungenial clime
In the eternal spring of Paradise to bloom;
For her the world display'd its highest treasure,
And the airs panted with the songs of pleasure:
Before earth's throne she chose the lowly tomb,
The vale of tears with willing footsteps trod,
Bearing her cross with thee, incarnate Son of God!

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,
Of its green leaves are kingly diadems made,

And wrapt within its deep embosoming calm
Earth sinks to slumber like the breezeless deep,
And war's tempestuous vultures fold their wings and
sleep.

Sing to the Lord! no more the angels fly
Far in the bosom of the saintless sky

The sound of fierce licentious sacrifice.
From shrined alcove, and stately pedestal,
The marble gods in cumbrous ruin fall,

Headless in dust the awe of nations lies;
Jove's thunder crumbles in his mouldering hand,
And mute as sepulchres the hymnless temples stand

Sing to the Lord! from damp prophetic cave
No more the loose-hair'd sybils burst and rave;
Nor watch the augurs pale the wandering bird:
No more on hill or in the murky wood,
Mid frantic shout and dissonant music rude,

In human tones are wailing victims heard;
Nor fathers by the reeking altar-stone

[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,
And the thronged cities in one gladdening shout;
The farthest shores by pilgrim step explored;