For thou canst quell the stormy breast, When drearily and heavily And joy lights not the eye of dawn, Oh, let me not, thou gracious One, For thou canst make the darksome night Both glorious and fair, The drear and lonely hours more bright Thy Spirit shed abroad will light And in the beauty of its might Turn tumults into rest. W. MARTIN. THE SABBATH. DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me And dear to me the winged hour, And dear to me the loud Amen, And dear the rustic harmony, Sung with the pomp of village art; In secret I have often pray'd, And still the anxious tear would fall; The fire descends, and dries them all. Oft when the world, with iron hands, Has bound me in its six-days chain, This bursts them, like the strong man's bands, Then dear to me the Sabbath morn, Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre, CUNNINGHAM. WHEN THE HEART IS SORE SMITTEN. WHEN the heart is sore smitten by sorrow, And the eye that would gaze on the morrow, That can dry up its sorrow, and lighten Though the world to our griefs may be ever And mankind may be eager to sever And the mighty may daily endeavour A CRY TO GOD. THOU God of glorious majesty, An half-awaken'd child of man, Lo! on a narrow neck of land, "Twixt two unbounded seas I stand, Secure, insensible: A point of time, a moment's space, Removes me to that heavenly place, Or shuts me up in hell. O God, mine inmost soul convert! And deeply on my thoughtless heart Eternal things impress: Give me to feel their solemn weight, And tremble on the brink of fate, And wake to righteousness. Before me place, in dread array, The pomp of that tremendous day, When thou in clouds shalt come To judge the nations at thy bar; And tell me, Lord, shall I be there To meet a joyful doom? Be this my one great business here, Thine utmost counsel to fulfil, Then, Saviour, then my soul receive, Transported from this vale to live And reign with thee above! Where faith is sweetly lost in sight, And everlasting love. C. WESLEY. TURNING TO GOD. THE heart is like a dungeon drear, In words of comfort-'tis a cave 'Tis like a wild and desert plain, Shrubless, herbless, parch'd, and sear'd; And like the hot siroc, the pain Of memory blisters all it rear'd In golden youth's blithe sunny ray, To be a balm to pining age; Fresh hopes are wither'd all away, Despair is all its heritage: Yet when to God it turns and clings, 'Mid all a green oasis springs. W. MARTIN. NEARER TO THEE. NEARER, my God, to thee, E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me: |