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My course is run, my errand done-
But darker ministers of fate
Impatient round the eternal throne,
And in the caves of vengeance wait,
And soon mankind shall blench away
Before the name of Attila.
God of my life, and author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And trembling take upon a mortal tongue
That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more
Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere
Are equal all, for all are nothing here.
All Nature faints beneath the mighty name
Which Nature's works through all her parts proclaim.
I feel that name my inmost thoughts controul,
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul;
As by a charm the waves of grief subside;
Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide:
At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace,
Till every worldly thought within me dies,
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes;
Till all my sense is lost in infinite,
And one vast object fills my aching sight.
But soon alas! this holy calm is broke; My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; With shackled pinions strive to soar in vain, And mingles with the dross of earth again. But He, our gracious Master, kind as just, Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. His spirit ever brooding o'er our mind, Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, And fans the smoking flax into a flame. His ears are open to the softest cry, His grace descends to meet the lifted eye; He reads the language of a silent tear, And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give, Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live; From each terrestrial bondage set me free; Still every wish that centres not in thee; Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, And point my path to everlasting peace.
If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads
By living waters, and through flowery meads,
When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene,
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene,
Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare,
And whisper to my sliding heart-Beware.
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice,
And doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice.
If friendless in a vale of tears I stray,
Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way,
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see,
And with strong confidence lay hold on thee;
With equal eye my various lot receive,
Resigned to die, or resolute to live;
Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod,
While God is seen in all, and all in God.
I read his awful name emblazoned high
With golden letters on the illumined sky;
Nor less the mystic characters I see
Wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree:
In every leaf that trembles to the breeze
I hear the voice of God among the trees;
With thee in shady solitudes I walk,
With thee in busy crowded cities talk;
In every creature own thy forming power,
In each event thy providence adore.
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear controul.
Thus shall I rest unmoved by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms,
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.
Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate,
I stand, and stretch my view to either state :
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having lived to thee-in thee to die.
ON THE PARTING OF THREE FRIENDS.
In parting, perhaps we are breaking a link
Which will ne'er be united again!
And firm as that chain is-'tis painful to think
That absence may rend it in twain.
Oh when shall we meet ?—perhaps not until time
Shall have withered our hearts with our bloom, Oh where-in some strange, and some far distant clime, Or within the dear circle at home?
When together we dwell, and together decay,
The change then is painful to view!
But oh! it is mournful-to meet and to say,
Was it thou-who last bade me adieu !
We may meet in sorrow-or sickness-or pain,
Or no more, in this world of woe!
But still the fond hope, of once meeting again,
Shall cheer us, wherever we go.
Perhaps in some populous haunt we may meet,
'Mid the laugh-and the song-and the jest,
Or perhaps in some lonely and sylvan retreat,
Where feeling hath room in the breast.
And oh ! we may meet, when our hearts are less warm, Have been chilled by adversity's blast!
But cold though they be, an invincible charm
Must hallow the scenes that are past.