And teach my stubborn soul to bend,

In love to thy decree.

Whatever come, if thou wilt bless
The brightness and the gloom,

And temper joy, and soothe distress,
I fear no earthly doom:

Life cannot give a cureless sting,
Death can but crown my bliss,
And waft me on an angel's wing,
Away to happiness.




As the hart panteth after the water-brooks,
So panteth my soul after thee, O God.


THE stricken Arab hart had fled

Far from the streamlet's side,

And on the desart's fiery bed,

Had drooped, and sunk, and died.

Whilst all around was scorched and bare,

And strength and hope were gone,

He made his last, his burning lair,

Unfriended and alone.

Oh! what an agony to think

How far his native rill!

Its crystal fount, its grassy brink,

In fancy fresher still.

But stricken hart ne'er panted more,

When life was on the wing,

For cooling brook and grassy shore,
Than I for Zion's spring.

Fountain of glory, grace and love,
Oh come, oh come to me!

And let not, Lord, my spirit rove
Again from home and thee;

Lest I, too, make my burning lair,
Unpitied and alone,

In that dark desart-world of care,
Where hope is never known.

Where fancy paints the verdant plain,
And blossom-shaded spring

Of Heaven, to barb the dart of pain,
And keener anguish bring.

Poor Dives! what a hart-like doom:

From out that fiery glow,

You saw the fields of Eden bloom,

And heard its waters flow;

E'en to a beggar meanly clung,

In suppliant's humblest strain,

And asked one drop to cool your tongue, And asked that drop in vain.




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