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The white frost fell for our supply,
And redolent of heaven.
Oh, dearer than the summer's light,
Love's wedded faithful flame;
In modest dress and name!
Blest be the Power that kindly brought
Made this Bethesda mine;
Such springs of love divine.
LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS.
IGHT that shinest out of darkness,
From the depths where we are gazing, Shine upon our anxious sight; Let us see the worlds of glory, Where the countless hosts are praising
God's illimitable might.
Light that shinest into darkness,
Make this inward dungeon bright;
All things see in God's own light.
Shine, and so disperse our sadness,
In the dawn of heavenly day;
Telling of its wondrous way.
Rise in such celestial vision,
Star of radiance o'er the soul! Built for such eternal glory,
Make life's broken cisterns whole! Filled, the fount of holy feeling, With our Saviour's love revealing
God's all-conquering mercy there, -
Now, with meekest grace, so fair,
Thus the glooms of darkening shadows, once so
threatening round our path, Were but proofs of God's dear mercies, but not of
impending wrath; For the heat and the glare of the sun in his might Could be worse than the darkness and storms of
the night. But God, by the gifts of his pardoning love, Assures us a heaven of glory above, Where eye hath not seen, nor ear ever heard, The treasures immortal disclosed in his Word; Nor ever conjectures of reason made known, The glory prepared, or the heritage won, The Cross and the kingdom of grace in God's
Son, Forgiveness of guilt through eternity shown, And the love of Jehovah the strength of his throne !
Nor ever conjectures of reason made known,
UR wedded life, my love, you see
Has come to its majority. Her Muse informs me with a sigh, She can't my annual draft supply: “Love's debts, being twenty-one years old, Should not in rhymes be paid, but gold.
“ The case were different could you find,
But I reply: “The Muse is wild,
, And prattles like a petted child, Whose thoughts are all on Christmas blisses, Of gifts and dolls and sugar kisses. The Muse knows well, no man on earth Could reckon, much less pay, love's worth. 'T is costlier than the crystal spheres; It can't be counted up by years. Her debt could hardly be more weighty, If we should each live to be eighty. But 't is impossible to pay So vast a tribute in one day. The income tax of all the bliss Of these bright years, if paid in this, By itself would make a millionnaire Of any other wedded pair; And if the Muse expects to be Paid in hard coin for poetry, A tax upon the tax itself Is all that could be raised in pelf. My wife, moreover, holds the purse, Which makes the matter so much worse; For if you don't advance the rhyme, She will not pay a single dime.”
Her Muse on this, with much good sense,