Sweet the harmonies that tell
Of forgiveness, then; - a spell Is upon the spirit riven,
Not of earth, but all of heaven. Some thou callest by the loud Thunderings of thy judgment cloud; When the midnight volleying peal Doth to quickened thought reveal All of vileness, dared and done, All of utter ruin won.
When transgressors, that were wooing Pleasure to the soul's undoing,
Pause, bewildered-look within, Look to Christ, and leave their sin. By the path of sorrow, thou Leadest stricken parents now; She who bendeth silently
O'er the child that soon must die, Thou dost call in every groan Of that sufferer, to her own Keener anguish answering,— Thou in bitterness dost bring, That she may of mercy sing, And from flowerets of the tomb Turn to trees of living bloom. Some by sickness thou dost call, — Some, above a buried friend,
Ponder on their latter end.
Others, shuddering at the pall,
Winding sheet, and sepulchre,
Some, in visions of the night;
Some, when basking in the bright Beamings of prosperity;
Some in abject poverty.
Some filled existence' page
Thou dost call in wintry age;
most sweet and pleasant flowers
Offer thee their vernal hours.
Some, in their ancestral halls, Some, as beggared prodigals; Some, the anxious father's care, Poured out in the midnight prayer ; Some, a mother's quiet tear To the kingdom bringeth near. Plaintive hymn dissolves that soul, This, the noble organ's roll; Some, a single caution wins; This one stops, in view of sins Raging round him like a flood, And rebuked, alarmed, to God Flies he in the troublous hour, Only safe with Sovereign Power, Some, within their cedar rooms, Others, wrapt in dungeon glooms, Some, whose lot with thrones is cast, Some, upon the giddy mast; Some, before the public gaze, Some, in secret. Many ways Of compassion, Lord! hast thou! Teaching rebel men to bow;
Many ways to bring to thee
Wilful heart and stubborn knee;
Oh, for ways to praise thy love!
Go, proud Perfectionist! approach the throne Wrapt in thy self-wrought righteousness alone; And scorning thus the Saviour's crimsoned robe, Look greatly down on Paul, Isaiah, and Job. Bidding him stand apart, who, in his need, Craved from Sin's loathsome body to be freed. Deriding, in thy purity, the cry
That burst impassioned, when the prophet's eye Saw glimpse of those that company above,— How pure the lips that warble matchless love! How vile his own! - Spurn him who felt the rod, And yet, in all, sinned not, nor idly charged his God. Do this, and as thou proudly livest, as proudly die, And be alone! - Thou mayest not sit on high With those that washed in blood their raiment white, The dwellers now in uncreated light.
No! while they touch the glowing chords of love, Another harp 'tis thine to take above.
* A representative of the sect which appeared a few years since in the western part of New York state-repudiators of the Bible and the ordinances of the gospel.
They to their Saviour wake the golden string, Thou, to thy task, wilt thy Perfection bring. While the redeemed ones joyfully cast down Before Messiah's palm and starry crown,
Thou wilt wear thine, as comfortless thou'lt stand, Far from the humble yet exalted band; And, shunning all its joys and splendors given, In thy own self wilt find thy cheerless heaven. Oh, weep betimes, and leaving all thy pride, With us make only boast, that JESUS DIED!
TIME was, when men, to keep in memory Brave deeds of their old fathers, on this spot, Where battle in just quarrel once was hot- Said, that hewn stone should rise, and ever be A record of their daring, who did meet
The Briton in unequal, bloody fight,
Strong in the cause of Country, God, and Right, And won their victory in a proud retreat. Now, (such the loftier triumph of sweet Peace,) The work, like troubled Babel, is at stand. Long be it thus !- No monument our land Asks, their memorial, save the sure increase Of glad prosperity, that still doth wait The unambitious Free, the virtuous State.
VERSES FOR A TEMPERANCE SOCIETY.
BRING garlands! Time shall heedless slip In pleasure, while we wreaths entwine; Bring goblets! -as he flies, the lip We'll press unto the rosy wine. And we will laugh, for life's a dream, Its cares not worth a passing sigh; Be mirth and wine, to-day, our theme, To-morrow we, perchance, may die !
Such was the song the Syren sung Ten years ago, to thoughtless men; And such the fetters that she flung, Concealed in flowers, around them then. The song is hushed, or banished, now, To haunts by vile inebriates trod; To wine the wise no longer bow,
The chain is broke, we thank thee, God!
Yes, we are FREE! - but who are these, The bloated, brutish, shackled crew, All night who tarry at the lees, With morning who the cup renew? Ah! they are Men, though sadly sold To death that stings beyond the grave; Our brethren, minds that thou didst mould, Oh, God! shall we not haste to save?
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