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His truths upon the nations rise,
They rise, but never set.
For such a bright display,
With beams of heavenly day.
The steps of him I love,
In brighter worlds above.
LOVE OF GOD.
0! would you be assured you love your God,
you himself from prison and from death,
Than to administer to you, his child ;
may confess in you the heir of heaven. Believe the Lord your God is such a one, And you must love him, even to your soul.
TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.
CREATURE of air and light,
Wilt thou not speed thy flight,
What lures thee thus to stay
With silence and decay,
The thoughts, once chamber'd there,
Will the dust tell us where
Rise, nursling of the day,
If thou wouldst trace their way;
Who seeks the vanish'd bird
Far hence he sings unheard,
Yet free and joyous, in the woods to dwell.
There, of the sunshine born,
Take the bright wings of morn; Thy hope calls heavenward from yon ruin'd cell.
A THOUGHT ON DEATH.
When life, as opening buds, is sweet,
Alas! how hard it is to die !
When scarce is seized sone borrow'd prize,
How awful then it is to die!
When one by one those ties are torn,
Ah! then how easy 't is to die!
'Tis nature's precious boon to die!
When faith is strong, and conscience clear,
'Tis joy, 't is triumph then to die !
THE WIDOW OF NAIN.
O MINGLE with the widow's tears
The drops for misery shed; She bends beneath the weight of years ;
Her earthly hope is fled.
Her son-her only son
Oh, who shall wipe that eye ? For she must journey lonely on,
And solitary die !
The pall upon his corse is spread,
The bier they slowly raise ;
_That widow'd mother's gaze.
on, without a tear, Her dear, her darling child : But who is He that stops the bier,
With look and accent mild ?
The Savior is that pitying one;
His glance her wo disarms-
-a living son Is in his mother's arms!
THE AUTUMN EVENING.
Behold the western evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom : So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb. The winds breathe low, the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree: So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be. How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed ! 'T is like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast! 'T is like the memory left behind
When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears :
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light
Its glories shall restore;
Shall ope, to close no more.