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Till like a sea of glory
It spreads from pole to pole :
Till o'er our ransom'd nature
The lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign:
O Zion! when I think of thee
I long for pinions like the dove;
And mourn to think that I should be
So distant from the land I love. A captive exile far from home,
For Zion's sacred walls I sigh, With ransom'd kindred there to come,
And see Messiah eye to eye. While here I walk on hostile ground
The few that I can call my friends Are, like myself, in fetters bound,
And weariness our steps attends. But yet we hope to see the day
When Zion's children shall return; When all our griefs shall flee away,
And we no more again shall mourn. The thought that such a day will come,
Makes e'en the exile's portion sweet: Though now we wander far from home,
In Zion soon we all shall meet.
WHERE then shall hope and fear their objects find?
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind?
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?
Inquirer, cease, petitions yet remain
Which heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain.
Still raise, for good, the supplicating voice,
But leave to heav'n the measure and the choice;
Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious prayer.
Implore his aid ; in his decisions rest
Secure; whate'er he gives, he gives the best;
Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind nature's signal for retreat:
These goods for man the laws of heaven ordain ;
These goods he grants, who grants the means to gain;
With these, celestial wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.
Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood :
Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight callid in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot;
The flight is past—and man forgot.
The pious mang In this bad world where mists and couchant storms Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith, Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields Of ether, where the day is never veiled With intervening vapours; and looks down Serene upon the troublous sea, whose nether face To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all; But
on whose billowy back, from man concealed, The glaring sunbeam plays.
When marshalld on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone of all the train,
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From ev'ry host, from ev'ry gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the star of Bethlehem.
Once on the raging seas I rode,
The storm was loud, the night was dark,
The ocean yawn'
d and rudely blowed, The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death struck, I ceas'd the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose,
It was the star of Bethlehem.
· It was my guide, my light, my all;
It bade my dark forebodings cease ;
And thro' the storm, and danger's thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moor’d;—my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
For ever and for evermore,
The Star!-the Star of Bethlehem !
It is not that my lot is low.
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.
In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.
Yet when the silent evening sighs
With hallowed airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.
The autumn leaf is sear and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed,
I would not be a leaf to die,
Without recording sorrow's sigh.
The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And, when I sigh, to sigh with me.
Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too.
I start, and, when the vision's flown,