« VorigeDoorgaan »
Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, 'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is
unfurled, The skies are shrivelled like a burning scroll, And the vast common doom ensepulchres the
Oh! who shall then survive ?
Oh! who shall stand and live ?
When all that hath been is no more:
When for the round earth hung in air,
With all its constellations fair,
In the sky's azure canopy ;
When all the breathing earth and sparkling sea,
Is but a fiery deluge without shore, Heaving along the abyss profound and dark, A fiery deluge, and without an ark.
Lord of all power, when Thou art there alone, On thy eternal, fiery wheelèd throne,
That in its high meridian noon
Needs not the perished sun nor moon : When Thou art there in Thy presiding state, Wide-sceptered monarch o'er the realm of
Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm,
Even safe as we by this still fountain side,
So shall the Church, Thy bright and mystic
Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm,
Yes, ʼmid yon angry and destroying signs,
O’er us the rainbow of Thy mercy shines; We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam, Almighty to avenge, Almightiest to redeem !
HENRY HART MILMAN.
Where Streams of Living Water Bun.
ETHINKS, when on the languid eye
Life's autumn scenes grow dim ;
When evening's shadows veil the sky,
And Pleasure's syren hymn
Grows fainter on the tuneless ear,
Like echoes from another sphere,
Or dream of seraphim,
It were not sad to cast away
This dull and cumbrous load of clay.
It were not sad to feel the heart
Grow passionless and cold;
To feel those longings to depart
That cheer'd the good of old;
To clasp the faith which looks on high,
Which fires the Christian's dying eye,
And makes the curtain-fold
That falls upon his wasting breast
The door that leads to endless rest.
It were not lonely thus to lie
On that triumphant bed,
Till the pure spirit mounts on high,
By white-wing'd seraphs led:
Where glories earth may never know
O’er “many mansions” lingering glow,
In peerless lustre shed;
It were not lonely thus to soar,
Where sin and grief can sting no more.
And, though the way to such a goal
Lies through the clouded tomb,
If on the free, unfetter'd soul
There rest no stains of gloom,
How should its aspirations rise
Far through the blue unpillar'd skies,
Up, to its final home!
Beyond the journeyings of the sun,
Where streams of living waters run.
WILLIS G. CLARK.
Watch, and Pray.
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquenee of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,-
Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no mor
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent.
Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.—The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, -
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave