"Come, wanderers, to my Father's home,
Come, all ye weary ones, and rest!"
Yes! sacred Teacher, we will come,
Obey thee, love thee, and be blest.
Decay then, tenements of dust!
Pillars of earthly pride, decay!
A nobler mansion waits the just,
And Jesus has prepared the way.
ON THE DEATH OF A CHRISTIAN FRIEND.
WHEN faith and love, which parted from thee never,
Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load
Of death, call'd life, which us from life doth sever.
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavor,
Stay'd not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But, as faith pointed with her golden rod,
Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever!
Love led them on, and faith, who knew them best.
Thy handmaids clad them o'er with purple beams,
And azure wings, that up they flew so dress'd,
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes,
Before the Judge; who thenceforth bade thee rest,
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.
LINES ADDRESSED TO THE RING-DOVE.
SWEET bird, again that plaintive strain;
It seems the Christian voice;
O'er earth and sin constrain'd to roam,
And yet in hope rejoice.
Let gayer warblers of the grove
Their varied notes express;
Far more thy single strain I love,
And more thy pilgrim dress.
Thy notes, which erring men despise,
Like those of Zion's song,
To one alone in love arise,
Nor heed the glittering throng!
How sad thy cry, from thee if fate
Should rend that one so dear!
What songs express thy joyful state,
To see him reappear!
So weeps that soul the Savior slain,
For whom his life he gave;
So triumphs that he rose again
Victorious from the grave.
And ah! thy soft and sweet complaint,
Thy murmurs when caress'd;
So mourns the saint, by earth detain'd,
E'en on his Master's breast.
But soon, with swift unburden'd wing,
His soul shall mount above,
In one eternal strain to sing
A dying Savior's love.
"THOU HAST MADE SUMMER AND WINTER."
My God, all nature owns thy sway;
Thou givest the night and thou the day.
When all thy loved creation wakes,
When morning, rich in lustre, breaks,
And bathes in dew the opening flower,
To thee we owe her fragrant hour;
And, when she pours her choral song,
Her melodies to thee belong!
Or when, in paler tints array'd,
The evening slowly spreads her shade;
That soothing shade, that grateful gloom,
Can, more than day's enlivening bloom,
Still every fond and vain desire,
And calmer, purer thoughts inspire;
From earth the pensive spirit free,
And lead the soften'd heart to thee.
In every scene thy hands have dress'd, every form by thee impress'd,
Upon the mountain's awful head,
Or where the sheltering woods are spread; In every note that swells the gale,
Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale,
The cavern's depth or echoing grove,-
A voice is heard of praise and love.
As o'er thy works the seasons roll,
And soothe, with change of bliss, the soul,
O never may their smiling train
Pass o'er the human soul in vain!
But oft, as on their charms we gaze,
Attune the wondering soul to praise,
And be the joys that most we prize,
The joys that from thy favor rise.
THE morning flowers display their sweets,
And gay their silken leaves unfold,
As careless of the noontide heats,
As fearless of the evening cold.
Nipp'd by the wind's unkindly blast,
Parch'd by the sun's directer ray,
The momentary glories waste,
The short-lived beauties die away.
So blooms the human face divine,
When youth its pride of beauty shows;
Fairer than spring the colors shine,
And sweeter than the virgin rose :
Till, worn by slowly rolling years,
Or broke by sickness in a day,
The fading glory disappears,
The short-lived beauties die away.
Yet these, new rising from the tomb,
With lustre brighter far shall shine;
Revive with ever-during bloom,
Safe from diseases and decline.
Let sickness blast, let death devour,
If heaven must recompense our pains;
Perish the grass, and fade the flower,
If firm the word of God remains.
UPON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
Ан me! these youthful bearers, robed in white,
They tell a mournful tale. Some blooming friend
Is gone,-dead in her prime of years. 'T was she,
The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give,
With angel tongue persuaded those who could;
With angel tongue, and mild beseeching eye,
That ne'er besought in vain, save when she prayed
For longer life, with heart resign'd to die,—
Rejoiced to die,-for happy visions bless'd
Her voyage's last days, and, hovering round,
Alighted on her soul, giving presage
That heaven was nigh. O what a burst
Of rapture from her lips! What tears of joy
Her heavenward eyes suffused! Those eyes are closed;
But all her loveliness is not yet flown.
She smiled in death, and still her cold, pale face
Retains that smile: as when a waveless lake,
In which the wintry stars all bright appear,
Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice,
Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged,
Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast.
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