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JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

Yet not the lightest tone was heard
From angel voice or angel hand;
And not one pluméd pinion stirred
Among the pure and blissful band.
For there was silence in the sky,

A joy not angel tongues could tell,
As from its mystic fount on high
The peace of God in stillness fell.

O, what is silence here below?

The fruit of a concealed despair; The pause of pain, the dream of woe;It is the rest of rapture there.

And to the way worn pilgrim here,

More kindred seems that perfect peace, Than the full chants of joy to hear Roll on, and never, never cease.

From earthly agonies set free,

Tired with the path too slowly trod, May such a silence welcome me Into the palace of my God.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

[U. S. A., 1767-1848.]

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. SURE, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest, The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise,

Beyond where worlds material roll, Till some fair sister of the skies

Receives the unpolluted soul.
That inextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth,
Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam
The more it lingers upon earth.
But when the Lord of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death
Which speeds an infant to the tomb,
No passion fierce, nor low desire,

Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back to its God the living fire

Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner! be that solace thine! Let Hope her healing charm impart, And soothe, with melodies divine, The anguish of a mother's heart.

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In darkness as in light, Hidden auce from new, I dikep, I wake, na in his night Who looks all nature through

All that I am, have been, All that I yet may be, He sees at once, as he hath seen, And shall forever see.

"Forever with the Lord": Father, if 't is thy will, The promise of that faithful word Unto thy child fulfil!

So, when my latest breath Shall rend the veil in twain, By death I shall escape from death, And life eternal gain.

PRAYER.

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire
Uttered or unexpressed,

The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh,

The falling of a tear; The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Praver is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;
His watchword at the gates of death:
He enters heaven by prayer.

Praver is the contrite sinner's voice
Returning from b's ways:
While angels in their songs rejoice,
dad say, "Behvid he prays.

0 Phou, by whom we come to God,
The Lie, the Truth, the War,
The vach of over thyself hast rod:
Loid, such us how to pray!

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

[1762-1827.]

WHILST THEE I SEEK.

WHILST Thee I seek, protecting Power,
Be my vain wishes stilled!
And may this consecrated hour
With better hopes be filled.

Thy love the power of thought bestowed;
To thee my thoughts would soar:
Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed,
That mercy I adore.

In each event of life, how clear
Thy ruling hand I see!
Each blessing to my soul more dear,
Because conferred by thee.

In every joy that crowns my days,
In every pain I bear,

My heart shall find delight in praise,
Or seek relief in prayer.

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JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. -TALTER SAVAGE CATECH.

Yet not the lightest tone was begerd
From angel voice or angel hand
And not one plamed pinion strUHË
Among the pare and blissful band
For there was silence in the sky,

A joy not angel tongues ecclt me,
As from its mystic font ce hart

The peace of God in sulliness fell
O, what is silence here below?

The fruit of a occealed des
The pause of pain, the dream of wœ;—
It is the rest of rapture there.

And to the wayworn piim here,

More kindred seems was perfect peace,
Than the full chants of joy to hear
Roll on, ani never, never cease.

From earthly agcntes set free

Tired with the path too slowly trad,
May such a silence welcome me
Into the palace of my God.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

[J. S Any 1767-1848-1

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.
SURE, to the mansions of the blest
When infant innocence ascends,
Some angel, brighter than the rest,
The spotless spirit's flight attends.
On wings of ecstasy they rise,
Beyond where worlds material roll,
Ti seme fair sister of the skies
Receives the unpolluted soul.
That inextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth,
Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam
The more it lingers upon earth.

But when the Lord of mortal breath

Degrees his bounty to resume,
nd points the silent shaft of death
Which speeds an infant to the tomb,
passion fierce, nor low desire,

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Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by,

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Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste, Go, tell the night that hides thy face,

Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun! Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

"T is Mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth
The vassals of his will?

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim, discrownéd king of day;

For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again:

On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God!

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LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

139

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry.'

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight:
"I'll go, my chief, I'm ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady;

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry:

Glenara! Glenara! now read me my So, though the waves are raging white,

dream!"

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