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ALAS! how light a cause may move
A word unkind, or wrongly taken-
A breath, a touch like this, liath shaken;
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
MOORE. THE GLORY OF GOD IN NATURE.
Thou art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see : Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from thee! Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine.
When Day with farewell beam delays,
Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven; Those hues that mark the day's decline, So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine.
When Night, with wings of stormy gloom,
O’ershadows all the earth and skies,
Is sparkling with a thousand dyes,
When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh, And every flower the Summer wreathes,
Is born beneath that kindling eye; Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine.
Fallen is thy throne, O Israel !
Silence is o'er thy plains !
Thy children weep in chains.
On Etham's barren shore !
Now lights that path no more!
Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem;
Once she was all thine own! Her love thy fairest heritage,
Her power thy glory's throne, Till evil came and blighted
Thy long-loved olive-tree, And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other gods than thee.
Then sank the star of Solyma,
Then passed her glory's day, Like heath that in the wilderness
The light wind whirls away. Silent and waste her bowers,
Where once the mighty trod; And sunk those guilty towers,
Where Baal reigned as God.
“Go," said the Lord, “ye conquerors,
Steep in her blood your swords, And raze to earth her battlements,
For they are not the Lord's.
Tell Zion's mournful daughter
O'er kindred bones she'll tread, And Hinnom's vale of slaughter
Shall hide but half her dead.”
But soon shall other pictured scenes
In brighter vision rise,
On all her mourner's eyes ;
The messengers of peace;-
TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.
Thy fruit full well the school-boy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!
I love it for his sake.
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thy satin-threaded flowers;
That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful,
Thy tender blossoins are !
How rich thy branchy stem !
And thou sing'st hymns to them!
While silent flowers are falling slow,
And, ʼmid the general hush,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The hawthorn flower is dead;
Hath laid her weary head !
In all their beauteous power,
And boyhool's blossoming hour,
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
STEAM IN THE DESERT.
“God made all nations of one blood,” And bade the nation-wedding flood
Bear good for good to men: Lo, interchange is happiness! The mindless are the riverless!
The shipless have no pen!
What deed sublime by them is wrought?
What type have they of speech or thought?
What soul-ennobled page?
Is theirs from age to age !