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"WE WEPT WHEN WE REMEMBERED ZION."

Он! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream;
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell;

Mourn where their God hath dwelt, the godless dwell.

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
And where shall Zion's songs again seem sweet?
And Judah's melody once more rejoice

The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice?

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
How shall ye flee away and be at rest?
The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country-Israel but the grave!

SABBATH MORNING.

DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me,
When village bells awake the day,
And, by their sacred minstrelsy,

Call me from earthly cares away.

And dear to me the winged hour,
Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord!
To feel devotion's soothing power,
And catch the manna of thy word.

And dear to me the loud Amen,

Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God.

And dear the rustic harmony,

Sung with the pomp of village art; That holy, heavenly melody,

The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often pray'd,

And still the anxious tear would fall; But, on thy sacred altar laid,

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,
And lets my spirit loose again.

Then dear to me the Sabbath morn;

The village bells, the shepherd's voice;
These oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms;

Ours be the prophet's car of fire,

That bears us to a Father's arms.

SABBATH EVENING.

Is there a time when moments flow
More lovelily than all beside?

It is, of all the times below,

A Sabbath eve in summer tide.

O! then the setting sun smiles fair,
And all below, and all above,
The different forms of nature wear
One universal garb of love.

And then the peace that Jesus beams,
The life of grace, the death of sin,
With nature's placid woods and streams,
Is peace without, and peace within.

Delightful scene! a world at rest,
A God all love, no grief nor fear,
A heavenly hope, a peaceful breast,
A smile unsullied by a tear.

If heaven be ever felt below,

A scene so heavenly, sure, as this May cause a heart on earth to know Some foretaste of celestial bliss.

Delightful hour! how soon will night
Spread her dark mantle o'er thy reign;
And morrow's quick returning light
Must call us to the world again.

Yet will there dawn at last a day,
A SUN that never sets shall rise;
Night will not veil his ceaseless ray,

The heavenly Sabbath never dies!

GOD OUR FATHER.

Is there a lone and dreary hour
When worldly pleasures lose their power?
My Father! let me turn to thee,
And set each thought of darkness free.

Is there a time of racking grief,
Which scorns the prospect of relief?
My Father! break the cheerless gloom,
And bid my heart its calm resume.

Is there an hour of peace and joy,
When hope is all my soul's employ?
My Father! still my hopes will roam,
Until they rest with thee, their home.

The noontide blaze, the midnight scene,
The dawn or twilight's sweet serene,
The sick, nay, e'en the dying hour,

Shall own my

Father's grace and power.

PROVIDENCE.

God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm:

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense
But trust him for his

grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;

God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.

DEATH OF A BELIEVER.

O THINK that, while you 're weeping here,
His hand a golden harp is stringing;

And, with a voice serene and clear,
His ransom'd soul, without a tear,
His Savior's praise is singing!

And think that all his pains are fled,
His toils and sorrows closed forever;

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