HOPE sets the stamp of vanity on all
That men have deemed substantial since the fall,
Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe
From emptiness itself a real use;
And while she takes, as at a father's hand,
What health and sober appetite demand,
From fading good derives, with chemic art,
That lasting happiness, a thankful heart.
Hope, with uplifted foot set free from earth,
Pants for the place of her ethereal birth;
On steady wings sails through the immense abyss,
Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss,
And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here,
With wreathes like those triumphant spirits wear.
Hope, as an anchor firm and sure, holds fast
The Christian vessel, and defies the blast.
Hope! nothing else can nourish and secure
His new-born virtues, and preserve him pure.
Hope! let the wretch, once conscious of thy joy,
Whom now despairing agonies destroy,
Speak, for he can, and none so well as he,
What treasures centre, what delights in thee.
Had he the gems, the spices, and the land
That boasts the treasure, all at his command:
The fragrant grove, the inestimable mine,
Were light, when weighed against one smile of thine.
CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.
FEAR was within the tossing bark,
When stormy winds grew loud;
And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bowed:
And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill-
But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea, “ Be still!”
And the wind ceased-it ceased!-that word
Passed through the gloomy sky;
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And sank beneath his eye.
And slumber settled on the deep,
And silence on the blast,
As when the righteous falls asleep,
When death's fierce throes are past.
Thou that didst rule the angry hour,
And tame the tempest's mood,
Oh! send thy Spirit forth in power,
O'er our dark souls to brood!
Thou that didst bow the billow's pride,
Thy mandates to fulfil,
Speak, speak, to passion's raging tide,
Speak and say-"Peace be still!"
SEEST thou yon lonely cottage in the grove,
With little garden neatly planned before,
Its roof deep shaded by the elms above,
Moss-grown, and decked with velvet verdure o'er?
Go lift the willing latch; the scene explore,
Sweet peace and love, and joy, thou there shalt find;
For there Religion dwells, whose sacred lore
Leaves the proud wisdom of the world behind,
And pours a heavenly ray on every humble mind.
When the bright morning gilds the eastern skies,
Up springs the peasant from his calm repose,
Forth to his honest toil he cheerful hies,
And tastes the sweets of nature as he goes.
But first, of Sharon's fairest, sweetest rose
He breathes the fragrance, and pours forth the praise;
Looks to the source whence every blessing flows,
Ponders the page which heavenly truth conveys,
And to its Author's hand commits his future ways.
Nor yet in solitude his prayers ascend;
His faithful partner and their blooming train, The precious word, with reverent minds attend, The heaven-directed path of life to gain. Their voices mingle in the grateful strain, The lay of love and joy together sing,
To Him whose bounty clothes the smiling plain, Who spreads the beauties of the blooming spring,
And tunes the warbling throats that make the valleys ring.
BROKEN-HEARTED WEEP NO MORE.
BROKEN-HEARTED, weep no more!
Hear what comfort He hath spoken,
Smoking flax who ne'er hath quenched,
Bruised reed who ne'er hath broken :-
"Ye who wander here below,
Heavy laden as ye go,
Come, with grief, with sin oppressed,
Come to me, and be at rest!"
Lamb of Jesus' blood-bought flock,
Brought again from sin and straying,
Hear the Shepherd's gentle voice,
"Tis a true and faithful saying:-
"Greater love how can there be
Than to yield up life for thee?
Bought with pang, and tear, and sigh,
Turn and live!—why will ye die?"
Broken-hearted, weep no more!
Far from consolation flying;
He who calls hath felt thy wound,
Seen thy weeping, heard thy sighing :-
Bring thy broken heart to me;
Welcome offering it shall be;
Streaming tears and bursting sighs
Mine accepted sacrifice."
EARTH WITH HER THOUSAND VOICES PRAISES GOD.
WHEN first, in ancient time, from Judah's tongue,
The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,
To sacred hymnings and Elysian song
His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke.
Devotion breathed aloud from every chord;—
The voice of praise was heard in every tone,
And prayer, and thanks to Him, th' Eternal One,--
To Him, who, with bright inspiration, touched
The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song,
And warmed the soul with new vitality.
A stirring energy through nature breathed;—
The voice of adoration from her broke,
Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard
Long in the sullen waterfall,-what time
Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth
Its bloom or blighting,-when the Summer smiled,
Or winter o'er the year's sepulchre mourned.
The Deity was there!- -a nameless spirit
Moved in the hearts of men to do him homage;
And when the Morning smiled, or Evening, pale,
Hung weeping o'er the melancholy urn,
They came beneath the broad o'er-arching trees,
And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft,
Where the pale vine clung round their simple altars,
And grey moss mantling hung. Above was heard
The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees
Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty,
And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below,
The bright and widely-wandering rivulet
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