COMFORT UNDER AFFLICTION.
WHEN gathering clouds around I view,
And days are dark, and friends are few;
On Him I lean, who, not in vain,
Experienced every human pain.
He sees my griefs, allays my fears,
And counts and treasures up my tears.
If aught should tempt my soul to stray
From heavenly wisdom's narrow way,
To fly the good I would pursue,
Or do the thing I would not do;
Still He, who felt temptation's power,
Shall guard me in that dangerous hour.
If wounded love my bosom swell,
Despised by those I prized too well;
He shall his pitying aid bestow,
Who felt on earth severer wo-
At once betray'd, denied, or fled,
By those who shared his daily bread.
When vexing thoughts within me rise,
And, sore dismay'd, my spirit dies;
Yet He, who once vouchsafed to bear
The sickening anguish of despair,
Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry,
The throbbing heart, the streaming eye.
When mourning o'er some stone I bend,
Which covers all that was a friend,
And from his voice, his, hand, his smile,
Divides me for a little while;
Thou, Savior, mark'st the tears I shed,
For thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead.
And O! when I have safely pass'd
Through every conflict but the last;
Still, still unchanging, watch beside
My painful bed—for thou hast died;
Then point to realms of cloudless day,
And wipe the latest tear away.
THERE is an hour of peaceful rest,
To mourning wanderers given;
There is a tear for souls distress'd,
A balm for every wounded breast-
'Tis found above-in heaven!
There is a soft, a downy bed,
'Tis fair as breath of even;
A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest the aching head,
And find repose, in heaven!
There is a home for weary souls,
By sin and sorrow driven;
When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,
And all is drear-but heaven!
There faith lifts up the tearful eye,
The heart with anguish riven ;
And views the tempest passing by,
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all serene, in heaven!
There fragrant flowers immortal bloom,
And joys supreme are given;
divine disperse the gloom: Beyond the confines of the tomb, Appears the dawn of heaven!
Ir is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,—
It is that I am all alone.
In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.
Yet when the silent evening sighs
With hallow'd airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.
The autumn leaf is sere and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh.
The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And, when I sigh, to sigh with me.
Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.
CHILD of the dust, I heard thee mourn:
"Will God forsake, and not return?
Unheal'd my wounds, my woes unknown,
Down to the grave I sink alone."
But art thou thus indeed alone,
Quite unbefriended and unknown?
And hast thou then His love forgot,
Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot?
Who laid his Son within the grave,
Thy soul from endless death to save?
Who gave his Spirit to console,
And make thy wounded bosom whole?
Is not His voice in evening's gale?
Beams not in Him the star so pale ?
Is there a leaf can fade or die,
Unnoticed by His watchful eye?
Each fluttering hope, each anxious fear,
Each lonely sigh, each silent tear,
To thine Almighty Friend are known;
And say'st thou, thou art all alone?
THERE is a time to laugh,
When joy may raise his billows like the deep,
And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff,—
But O, when is the season not to weep?
Is it when vernal suns
Unfold the silken flower and satin leaf,
Or when the hoar-frost nips the fading ones,
That frailer beings may refrain from grief?
Is it when health and bloom
Are painted on the smiling cheek of youth?
Or when disease is training for the tomb
The heart which cherishes its bitter truth?
Look not upon the brow
That shows no furrow from the plough of years;
There is a bend of peace upon
But oh! futurity is full of tears!
The prattling child at play
May charm itself, and dry its tears awhile;
But could its vision reach beyond to-day,
And read its sorrows, think you it would smile?
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