How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flower!
The glory of April and May!
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field:
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colors are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Though they bloom and look gay like the rose !
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain:
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty:
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.
THAT setting sun—that setting sun!
What scenes, since first its race begun,
Of varied hue, its eye hath seen,
Which are as they had never been.
That setting sun! full many a gaze
Hath dwelt upon its fading rays,
With sweet, according thought sublime,
In every age, and every clime!
'Tis sweet to mark thee, sinking slow
The ocean's fabled caves below,
And when the obscuring night is done,
To see thee rise, sweet setting sun.
So when my pulses cease to play,
Serenely close my evening ray,
To rise again, death's slumber done,
Glorious like thee, sweet setting sun.
O THOU whose lips can well repeat
The Savior's prayer, nor deem'st deceit
The while is lurking in thy heart,
Pause, ere their memory shall depart.
"Thy will be done!"-and dost thou find In the deep musings of thy mind
No fear, no hope, no passion there,
Thou couldst not freely from thee tear?
And darest thou call upon thy God
To try thee with his chastening rod,
And round the wide world steadfast look,
And find no ill thou canst not brook?
What! couldst thou see the whirlwind come
To tear thee from thy cherish'd home?
See the strong arm of death embrace
The best beloved of all thy race?
See, undeserved, an evil fame
Attaint thy long unsullied name?
Feel slow consuming sickness break
Thy mind, now impotent and weak?
Yet not one murmur ?-If but one,
Thou must not say, "Thy will be done!"
No: rather, ere thy spirit dare
Adopt the Savior's fervent prayer,
The Savior's spirit earnest seek,
Enduring, patient, firm, and meek.
Go, seek of God a heavenly mind,
Active, like His-like His, resign'd:
Pray, that thy very prayer may bring
No hated, no unwelcome thing;
Pray, that the will of Heaven may be
Health, joy, and all things else to thee;
And, thus the work of prayer begun,
Thou well may'st say, "Thy will be done."
GOD is good! each perfumed flower,
The smiling fields, the dark green wood,
The insect fluttering for an hour,—
All things proclaim that "God is good."
I hear it in the rushing wind;
The hills that have for ages stood,
And clouds, with gold and silver lined,
Áll still repeat that "God is good."
Each little rill which many a year
Has the same verdant course pursued ;
And every bird, in accents clear,
Join in the song that "God is good."
The countless hosts of twinkling stars,
Which e'en the keenest sight elude,
The rising sun each day declares,
In rays of light, that "God is good."
The restless main, with haughty roar,
Calms each wild wave and billow rude; Retreats, submissive, from the shore,
And joins the chorus-" God is good."
The moon, that walks in brightness, says That "God is good:" and man, endued With power to speak his Maker's praise,
Should still repeat that "God is good."
THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE.
O'ER Kedron's stream, and Salem's height,
And Olivet's brown steep,
Moves the majestic queen of night,
And throws from heaven her silver light,
And sees the world asleep;
All but the children of distress,
Of sorrow, grief, and care
Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless: These leave the couch of restlessness,
To breathe the cool, calm air.
For those who shun the glare of day,
There's a composing power
That meets them, on their lonely way,
In the still air, the sober ray
Of this religious hour.
'Tis a religious hour;-for He
Who many a grief shall bear,
In his own body on the tree,
Is kneeling in Gethsemane,
In agony and prayer.
O, Holy Father, when the light
Of earthly joy grows dim,
May hope in Christ grow strong and bright,
To all who kneel, in sorrow's night,
In trust and prayer like him.
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