« AnteriorContinuar »
Yet, courage—days and years will glide,
Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.
O LORD, another day is flown,
And we, a lonely band,
To bless thy fostering hand.
To praises low as ours ?
The song which meekness pours. And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign,
As we before thee pray;
And we are less than they.
* The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, by the Author, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, and singing it as he was used to do on such occasions.
O let thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease ; And shed abroad in every heart
Thine everlasting peace!
Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine,
A flock by Jesus led;
In glory on our head.
And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,
And thou wilt bless our way;
The dawn of lasting day.
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
When marshald 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 every host, from every 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 blow'd
The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck, I ceased 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 through the storm and dangers' thrall
It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moor’d—my peril's o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem, For ever, and for evermore,
The Star !—The Star of Bethlehem !
O LORD, my God, in mercy turn,
For pleasure I have given my soul;
Yet, Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling,
EULOGY ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE, BY
FROM THE ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH
UNHAPPY White !* while life was in its spring,
* Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.