« 上一頁繼續 »
May the Sabbath ever be
Harbinger of good to me!
Calling up my soul from earth
Fixing it on things of worth.
Swiftly do its sunbeams fly
O'er this changing wintry sky :
And in heaven's sabbatic bowers,
I shall praise Thee for these hours.
Suggested by attending a Funeral.
DEATH at every
hour I see,
When will it approach to me ?
Is the arrow on the bow,
Ready for the destin'd blow?
When shall I the summons hear,
Is it distant, is it near ?
Death in every place I see,
Where will it approach to me?
In the field or on the flood ?
In the calm of solitude,
Or amid the city's noise, -
Or amid domestic joys ?
Death in every shape I see,
How will it approach to me?
Like the spirit of the storm ?
Or seraph of a gentle form?
Cloth'd in terrors and alarms,
Or array'd in heavenly charms?
Death, I know, will come to me,
Why must I its victim be ?
'Tis the portion which the fall
Made the common lot of all ;
From th' immutable decree
None of Adam's race are free.
Death, I must thy captive be,
Whither wilt thou carry me?
Up to the celestial plains,
Or to everlasting pains ?
To the realms of perfect bliss
Or the fathomless abyss ?
Death, I'm not afraid of thee,
Jesus bore the curse for me ;
Christ for me was crucified,
I through Him am justified ;
Jesus took thy sting away,
I shall live in endless day.
WHEN are we happiest ? when the light of morn
Wakes the young roses from their crimson rest ;
When cheerful sounds, upon the fresh winds borne,
And man resumes his work with blither zest,
While the bright waters leap from rock to glen, -
Are we the happiest then ?
Alas, those roses ! they will fade away,
And thunder tempests will deform the sky;
And summer heats bid the spring buds decay,
And the clear sparkling fountain may be dry ;
And nothing beauteous may adorn the scene,
To tell what it hath been.
When are we happiest ? in the crowded hall,
When fortune smiles, and flatterers bend the knee?
How soon, how very soon, such pleasures fall !
How fast must falsehood's rainbow colouring flee!
Its poison flowerets have the sting of care ;
We are not happy there !
Are we the happiest, when the evening hearth
Is circled with its crown of living flowers ?
When goeth round the laugh of harmless mirth,
And when affection, from her bright urn, showers
Her richest balm on the dilating heart?
Bliss, is it there thou art ?
O, no! not there : it would be happiness
Almost like heaven's, if it might always be,
Those brows without one shading of distress,
And wanting nothing but eternity;
But they are things of earth, and pass away,
They must, they must decay!
Those voices must grow tremulous with years,
Those smiling brows must wear a tinge of gloom ;
Those sparkling eyes be quench'd in bitter tears,
And at the last, close darkly in the tomb :
If happiness depend on them alone,
How quickly is it gone !
When are we happiest then? 0! when resign’d
To whatsoe'er our cup of life may brim ;
When we can know ourselves but weak and blind,
Creatures of earth! and trust alone in Him
Who giveth in his mercy joy or pain :
O we are happiest then!
MARY ANN BROWNE.
TRUE happiness is not the growth of earth,
The toil is fruitless if we seek it here,
'Tis an exotic of celestial birth,
And never blooms but in celestial air :
Sweet flower of Paradise ! its seeds are sown
In here and there a mind of heavenly mould ;
It rises slow, and buds, but ne'er was known
To blossom here, the climate is too cold.
DR. DODDRIDGE, ON HIS MOTTO,
LIVE while you live,” the epicure will say, “ And taste the pleasures of the present day :" “ Live while you live," the sacred preacher cries, “ And give to God each moment as it flies." Lord ! in my view lèt each united be, I live in pleasure, while I live to Thee.
I ask'd an aged man, a man of cares,
Wrinkled and curved, and white with hoary hairs :
“ Time is the warp of life,” he said, “O tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well !"
I ask'd the ancient venerable dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled :
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flow'd-
“ Time sow'd the seeds we reap in this abode.”
I ask'd a dying sinner, ere the stroke
Of ruthless death life's “ golden bowl had broke;"
I ask'd him, What is time? “ Time,” he replied,
I've lost it, ah ! the treasure !” and he died.
I ask'd the golden sun and silver spheres,
Those bright chronometers of days and years :
They answered, “ Time is but a meteor's glare,”
And bade me for eternity prepare.
I ask'd the seasons in their annual round,
Which beautify or desolate the ground;
And they replied (no oracle more wise),
“ 'Tis folly's blank, and wisdom's highest prize."
I ask'd a spirit lost, but O! the shriek
That pierced my soul ! I shudder wbile I speak :
It cried, “ A particle ! a speck ! a mite
Of endless years, duration infinite !"
Of things inanimate, my dial I
Consulted, and it made me this reply,
• Time is the season fair of living well,
• The path to glory, or the path to hell.”