Oh 't is a blest companion-band, They wind the vale, the summit mount; The well springs up at their command, They drink, march on, but note the fount,Renewed by Heaven's most gracious rain,— Their panting followers to sustain ! Not one shall perish from those coasts! But who am I, O Lord of Hosts? My prayer, Thou God of Bethel, hear! A thousand days are no mean share Father of lights, illume my ways! PSALM THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH. BLEST Spectacle! Yon holy heights Therein are served no common rites, City of God! The dwelling-place Set ope to all of human kind! The latch of the devoted home But in the Progress of His State, And lo! He enters Zion's gate And dwells in it, though made with hands. O Church! Once feeble, small, and mean, What glorious things are told of thee! And, in prophetic light foreseen, A world now crowds thy sanctuary. They who once knew Thee,-could they hope That thou a listening world shouldst teach? Chaldean, Tyrian, Ethiop, Men of each kindred, tribe, and speech? Thou a new life dost spread around! From stones dost sons and daughters call! With matron-honours art thou crowned! Thou art the mother of us all! Thine is the renovating spell! Soon will, amidst the Last Account, And they shall bless the natal mount Which swells and blooms when all things fade. While at its base,-I cannot sing Like the sweet choirs which crest that hill: Yet do its sides with echoes ring, And yield me each refreshing rill! PSALM THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH. PARAPHRASE. WHAT rivers cleave this waste forlorn? The willows bear our stringed shells Which droop and murmur 'mong the reeds, The foe may o'er us proudly vaunt, No harp shall answer to his taunt, Though tears must flow ! Nor can we find our own relief In sweeping yon suspended lyres,— In pensive thought, 'midst sobbing grief, Our song expires! O Zion, ne'er art thou forgot! Nor thou, Jerusalem, our home! Whate'er from memory we must blot ! Where'er we roam ! Our touch shall lose its chording art, O Earth farewell! Thou doomed place,Our foeman's seat,-Thy judgments fall! Thy children perish! Vain Thou 'dst rase Our City's wall! We'll sing again! Our bosom burns! Skill shall direct our new-strung hand,Earth's days are numbered! Now returns The Exile Band ! PSALM THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SECOND. In reciting this Psalm, Francis of Assissium expired: the version is accommodated to the scene. Ан, 't is not now that I commence To pour to heaven my suppliant cry: Long have I proved Thy gentle care,- Before Thine eye: when inward stirred Little I mourn to leave this scene, As refuge, portion, Thee I 've known! But now I die,-with tenderest love Mark my last prayer, my latest woe,— Let not my tempters greatly move My heart which trembles faint and low- Praise, Praise! Thy heavenly bounties flow! |