O'erwhelming thoughts of pain and grief Over His sinking spirit sweep: "What boots it gathering one lost leaf Out of yon sere and wither'd heap— The deaf may hear the Saviour's voice, The laggard soul, that will not wake, No eye but His might ever bear The shore beyond of endless bliss. But that in such communion high He hath a fount of strength within, Sure His meek heart would break and die, O'erburden'd by his brethren's sin. Weak eyes on darkness dare not gaze— It dazzles like the noon-day blaze; But He who sees God's face may brook What then shall wretched sinners do, When in their last, their hopeless day, Sin, as it is, shall meet their view, God turn his face for aye away? Lord! by thy sad and earnest eye, As thou hast touch'd our ears, and taught From idle words, that restless throng, And haunt our hearts when we would pray--From pride's false chime, and jarring wrong, Seal thou my lips, and guard the way : For thou hast sworn, that every ear, TO THE WATCHER, THE HOLY ONE. EDMUND PEEL. ON love eternal do we nightly rest, On Him who careth casting all our care? O Lord! for thou art willing, hear our prayer! And grant, for thou art able, our request! From ghastly visions which the soul molest, Phantoms around the dungeon of despair, From cruel outrage, and from subtle snare, Preserve, O Lord! thy people sore-oppress'd! They in the light of thine unwearied eye Who find protection, lay them down in peace, To live rejoicing, and resign'd to die; For, to the faithful, death is a releaseThe portal to that Paradise on high In which the living from their labours cease. GATHER RIPE FRUITS, O DEATH! THOMAS RAGG, GATHER ripe fruits, O Death! Strew not the pathway of the tomb with flowers; There are enough for thee Of hearts that long for thy serene repose, That fain among the lowly-laid would be, Pierced deep with festering wounds that will not close. Go to the desolate, Whom thou hast robb'd of every star-bright thing, On whom the smiles of hope no longer wait, Go to the wearied frame, That seeks to slumber on the grave's cold breast, P Go to the saints of God, Whose souls are weary of the world and sin, Take these, take these to rest! But smite not childhood in its mirthful play, Gather ripe fruits, O Death! Strew not the pathway of the tomb with flowers ; Pass on! and touch not youth's bright fragrant bowers. |