Expanded, as pealed up the harmony,
While every nerve and every fibre seemed
Compelled to the sweet service. He, I saw —
Blest necromancer- had infused his soul
Into the soul of each, and each as one,
Gave voice, one master spirit moving all.
It speeds devotion, when intelligence
And skill, and piety, in concord join,
Producing music. Softened by its power,
The heart flows forth, and meekly entertains
The gospel message. Let not tuneless choirs,
Where life is not, nor melody, nor taste,
Essay the lofty praises of the King:
For to his shrines should such false fire be brought,
'Twould mar the sacrifice. How heavily,
How wearily would grieved Devotion's wing
Soar then! New unction must the soul require,
If thus disturbed, to worship God aright.
"A WEARY World," forever cry
The stricken, troubled, and the sad;
And openly, alike the bad,
Alike the good, in secret sigh;
And " weary, weary world," is still
The burden in their song of ill.
Aforetime, I have strung some lays
In idleness, to theme like this;
And shut my wilful eyes on bliss,
That round me lay in noontide blaze;
And chose the darkness which, in stour,
Fancy beheld around me lower.
Well pleased me then to say or sing,
"This world is all a fleeting show;"
And all its joys, as well as wo,
Are sombre as the raven's wing,
And flat as dreams of folly past,
That charm awhile, and cheat at last.
I've wiser grown; and this fair world
Seems fraught with something of the grace,
Which God inscribed upon its face,
When he the lovely planet hurled
Away, -as Time began his years,
To join the dances of the spheres.
66 My heart leaps up," when I am fanned
By morning's fragrance-laden air;
How blessed is the night! how fair
The landscape where I spy His hand!
The hill and vale have charms for me;
The river, and the broad blue sea.
Yes! and its fields, and fruits, and flowers, Its sun, and stars, and glorious frame, Now tell me of the Maker's name.
I read it in the flying hours,
I feel it in the summer's glow,
'Tis spangled on the winter's snow.
His love I welcome in the joy
Of friendship, and I need not roam For sweeter proof; my humble home, Where pleasures dwell that never cloy, Where peace has dove-like wing unfurled, Tells me 'tis not a "weary" world.
"Sin makes it weary;" true, yet here Thy argument doth blindly halt;
'Tis not the world, but man's in fault; And were to such the heavens brought near, And could sin there one moment dwell, Heaven would be but a "weary" hell.
And spirit! can that weary be,
Disgusting, vexing, on whose front
(Too deeply writ for ruin's brunt,
Or change,) stands thy eternity?
This, on which spleen in judgment sat,
Thy one probation-place for that!
God never wrought with ill intent,
Nor vainly; and this glorious world,
O'er which his starry skies are curled,
O'er which his bow of love is bent-
Scene of his Son's accomplished plan-
Is not a "weary" world for man.
I'll love it, and with holy love;
For its high mysteries will employ
Thought, language, love, in worlds of joy.
There and such be my bliss above! -
Earth has sweet portion in the soul,
And shall, as countless ages roll.
"Go, heal the sick, go, raise the dead," The Saviour to the Seventy said; –
They straightway spread abroad the flame Of sacred Mercy, in his name.
Lord, we are not commissioned thus;
To quell disease is not for us;
We cannot bid insensate dust
To rise, and tomb and cerement burst.
But we can cheer the dwelling, where
Is found the son of want and care;
And smooth the couch on which at last
The daughter of despair is cast.
And we may hush the orphan's fear,
And wipe away the widow's tear:
Win back the wand'ring and undone,
And clothe and feed the needy one,
Thus seeking such as thou didst know, Who wast companion, too, of wo;
Thus following paths thyself didst tread, Who often raised the drooping head;
Humbled, if, when the blessed stand
In judgment at thy high right hand,
We hear thee say, "Whatever ye
Have done to these, ye did to ME."
ON THOMPSON'S ISLAND, BOSTON HARBOR.
'Tis well to gather from your street
The children of neglect,
And teach them, in this fair retreat,
To win deserved respect;
And train the twig, so early bent
To vice, by culture kind;
And look for fruit of your intent-
The tree aright inclined.
'Tis well to snatch from Penury's den
Its hapless child, and show
Humanity is godlike, when
It softens human wo.
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