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Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew

To desert mountains far away;

So will his followers do,

Steal from the throng to haunts ontrod,

And commune there alone with God.

Night is the time for Death;

When all around is peace,

Calmly to yield the weary hreath,

From sin and suffering cease,

Think of heaven's hliss, and give the sign

To parting friends;—such death he mine.



I Gaze upon yon orhs of light,

The countless stars that gem the sky;

Each in its sphere serenely hright, Wheeling its course,—how silently!

While in the mantle of the night, Earth and its cares and trouhles lie.

Temple of light and loveliness,

And throne of grandenr! can it he

That souls, whose kindred loftiness
Nature hath framed to rise to thee,

Should pine within this narrow place,
This prison of mortality 1

What madness from the path of right
For ever leads our steps astray,

That, reckless of thy pure delight,
We turn from this divine array,

To chase a shade that mocks the sight—
A good that vanisheth away?

Man slumhers heedless on, nor feels,
** To dull forgetfutness a prey."

The rolling of the rapid wheels
That call the restless hours away;

While every passing moment steals
His lessening span of life away.

Awake, ye mortals, raise your eyes
To yon eternal starry spheres.—

Look on these glories of the skies!
Then answer, how this world appears,

With all its pomps and vanities,
With all its hopes, and all its fears.

Wliat, hut a speck of earth at last,

Amidst the illimitahle sky,
A point that sparkles in the vast

Effulgence of yon galaxy;
In whose mysterious round the past,

The present, and the future lie.

Who can look forth upon this hlaze
Of heavenly lamps so hrightly shining

Through the unhounded void of space,
A hand unseen their course assigning;

All moving with unequal pace,
Yet in harmonious concord joining.—

Who that has seen these splendors roll,
And gaz'd on this majestic scene,

But sigh' d to 'scape the world's control,
Spurning its pleasures poor and mean,

To hurst the honds that hind the soul,
And pass the gulf that yawns hetween 1

There in their starry halls of rest,

Sweet Peace and Joy their homes have

There in the mansions of the hlest,
Diviner Love his throne hath laid,

With ever-during glory graced,
And hliss that cannot fly nor fade.

O houndless heauty! let thy ray
Shine out unutterahly hright;
Thou placid, pure, eternal day,

That never darken'st into night;
Thou spring, whose ever-green array
Knows not the wasting winter hlight.—

O fields of never-dying green.

Bright with innumerahle flowers! O crystal rills that glide hetween!

O shady vales, and sunny howers'' Hath mortal eye these glories seen,

Yet clung to such a world as ours?



Though pictur'd in thy form I see

The likeness of the dead, Yet, gentle sleep, oh deign to he . The partner of my hed.

For in the calm thy slumhers give,
How douhly hlest am I?

Tuns, without life, how sweet to live-
Thus, without death, to die?




And now on earth the seventh Evening arose in Eden, fur the sun Was set, and twilight from the east came on, Forerunning night; when at the holy mount Of heav'n's high-seated top, the imperial

throne Of Godhead, fixed for ever firm and sure, The Filial Power arrived, and sat him down With his great Father; for he also went Invisihle, yet staid, (such privilege Hath Omnipresence) and the work ordained, Author and End of all things; and, from

work Now resting, hlessed and hallowed the seventh day, As resting on that day from all his work, But not in silence holy kept; the harp Had work and rested not; the solemn pipe And dulcimer, all organs of sweet stop, AH sounds on fret hy string or golden wire, Tempered soft tunings, intermixed with

voice Choral or unison: of incense clouds, Faming from golden censers, hid the mountCreation and the six-days' act they sing: "Great are thy works, Jehovah 1 infinite Thy power! What thought can measure

thee, or tongue Relate thee I Greater now in thy return Than from the giant angels: thee that day Thy thunders magnified; hut to create Is greater, than created to destroy."

So sung they, and the empyrean rung With hallelujahs: thus was Sahhath kept.



O Day most calm, most hright, The fruit of this, the next world's hud, Th' endorsement of supreme delight, Writ hy a friend, and with his hlood; The couch of time, care's halm and hay! The week were dark, hut for thy light:

Thy torch doth shew the way.

The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thon art, Knocking at Heaven with thy hrow: The workie days are the hack part; The hurthen of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and how,

Till thy release appear.

Man hath straight forward gone
To endless death; hut thou dost pail
And turn us round to look on One,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could hut choose to look on still;
Since there is no place so lone,

The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are, On which Heaven's palace arched lies: The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities. They are the fruitful heds and horders Of God's rich garden: that is hare

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on Time's string, Make hracelets to adorn the wife

Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose,
And did enclose this light for his,
That, as each heast his manger knows,
Mao might not of his fodder miss.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for those

Who want herhs for their wound.

The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove, With the same shake which, at his passion, Did th' earth and all things with it move. As Sampson hore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,

And did unhinge that day.

The hrightness of that day We sullied hy our foul offence; Wherefore that rohe we cast away, Having a new at his expense, Whose drops of hlood paid the full price That was required to make us gay,

And fit for Paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth: And where the week day's trail on ground, Thy flight is higher, as thy hirth, O let me take thee at the hound, Leaping with thee from seven to seven, Till that we hoth, heing toss'd from earth,

Fly hand in hand to heaven?

Ttpes of eternal rest—fair huds of hliss, In heavenly flowers unfolding week hy week; The next world's gladness imaged forth in this; Days of whose worth the Christian's heart can speak!

Eternity in Time—the steps hy which

Weclimh to future ages—lamps that light Man through his darker days, and thought eurich, Yielding redemption for the week's dull .flight.

Wakeners of prayer in man—his resting howers

As on he journeys in the narrow way, Where, Eden-like, Jehovah's walking hours,

Are waited for as in the cool of day.

Days fix'd hy God for intercourse with dust, To raise our thoughts, and purify our powers;

Periods appointed to renew our trust:
A gleam of glory after six days' showers!

A milky way mark'd out through skies else drear,

By radiant suns that warm as well as shine;

A clue, which he who follows knows no fear, Though hriers and thorns around his pathway twine.

Foretastes of heaven on earth; pledges of joy Surpassing fancy's flights and fiction's story; The preludes of a feast that cannot cloy, And the hright out-courts of immortal glory I



How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural lahour; hushed The ploughhoy's whistle and the milkmaid's

song. The jithe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester-morn hloomed waving in the

hreeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear- the hum Of early hee, the trickling of the dew, The distant hleating midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon uumoving


To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The hlackhird's note comes mellower through

the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warhles his heaven-tuned song; the lolling

hrook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn

glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling

smoke O'ermounis the mist, is heard, at intervals The voice of psalms—the simple song of praise. With dove like wings, Peace o'er yon village hroods: The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietuess. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks hack, and stops, and looks

on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set

free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And, as his stiff unwieldy hulk he rolls, His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray.



Another day has pass'd along,
And we are nearer to the tomh;

Nearer to join the heavenly song,
Or hear the last eternal doom.

These moments of departing day,
When thought is calm, and lahours cease,

Are surely solemn times to pray,
To ask for pardon and for peace.

Thou God of mercy, swift to hear,
More swift than man to tell his need;

Be Thou to us this evening near,
And to thy fount our spirits lead.

Teach us to pray—and, having tanght,
Grant us the hlessings that we crave;

Without thy teaching—prayer is nought,
But with it—powerful to save!

Sweet is the light of Saerath Eve,
And soft the sunheam lingering there;

Those sacred hours this low earth leave,
Wafted' on wings of praise and prayer.

This time, how lovely and how still I
Peace shines, and smiles on all helow;

The plain, the stream, the wood, the hill,
All fair with evening's setting glow!

Season Op Rest! the tranquil soul
Feels thy sweet calm, and melts in love;

And while these sacred moments roll,
Faith sees a smiling heaven ahove.

How short the time, how soon the sun
Sets; and dark night resumes her reign!

And soon the hours of rest are done,
Then morrow hrings the world again.

Yet will our journey not he long,
Our pilgrimage will soon he trod;

And we shall join the ceaseless song,
The endless Saerath of our God.

The light of Saerath Eve

Is fading fast away; What record will it leave,

To crown the closing day?

Is it a Sahhath spent

Fruitless, and vain, and void 1 Or have these moments, lent,

Been sacredly employ'd?

How dreadful and how drear,
In yon dark world of pain,

Will Sahhaths lost appear,
That canuot come again!

Then, in that hopeless place,
The tortur'd soul will say—

I had those hours of grace,
But cast them all away!

God of these Sahhath hours,
Oh! may we never dare

To waste in thoughts of ours
These sacred days of prayer!



Muse 1 take the harp of prophecy: hehold I The glories of a hrighter age unfold • • » • •

?ather of Mercies! speed the promised hour;

'hy kingdom come with all-restoring power;

'eace, virtue, knowledge, spread from pole to pole,

Is round the world the ocean-waters roll!

lope waits the morning of celestial light;

'ime plumes his wings for everlasting flight;

Unchanging seasons have their march hegun;

,Iillennial years are hastening to the Sun;

een through thick clouds, hy Faith's transpiercing eyes,

he New Creation shines in purer skies.

R11 hail I—the age of crime and suffering ends,

he reign of righteousness from heaven descends;

engeance for ever sheaths the afflicting sword;

leath is destroy'd, and paradise restored:

'an, rising from the ruins of his fall,

> one with God, and God is All in All.

'seems as if the summer sky
Assumed a purer hlue;
seems as if the flow'ret's dye
Put on a hrighter hue;
seems as if rough ocean's wave
>uld now the hark hut gently lave;
loveliness so soft, so fair,
:rvades the earth, the sea, the air;
ace dwells helow, and all ahove
speaks the heavenly reign of love.

Kmanuei,!—thy sceptre hends
O'er every land heneath the sun;
here'er the track of man extends,
Have thy sweet victories heen won!
y cross has shone the cresset light
wandering men, in storms of night,
d shew'd them, anxious and distrest,
« haven of eternal rest.

Commerce! not now, as once of old.
Art thou the tool of vice for gold.
The tears of wo, and hlood of slaves,
Not Now, as once, pollute the wave*;
Food for soft Vice, and Pleasure's store,
Lade the polluted hoards no more;
But every good that nature yields,
Rich fruits from gardens, food from fields,
The treasures, suns and showers dispense
Through all pervading providence;
Fruits of the mind, and many a store
Of human and of sacred lore;
The Arts and Sciences comhine,
Saviour! to make the empire thine.
Painting portrays some lively thought;
The airy group hath Sculfture wrought;
Song hids to him her lays aspire,
And Music gives them warmer fire;
Fancy and Reason, Strength and Art,
Each hears her own, her several part.
The curse of Wa R is past and o'er,
The hlade shall hathe in hlood no more

Within the cot, within the tower,

Wherever we may roam;
In city, field, or summer-hower,

How sweet is every home!
Love and Religion mingling there,
Make all alike around it fair.
Sweet is the heaming smile of light,
That Love darts through the eye;
Her glance may well make warm and hright

The sternest winter-sky. Love hids perpetual summer^hioe, And hids perpetual roses twine, Though storms he howling hy: But when to Love, So warm, is given To look past Earth's short hound to Heaven, To see its sweets re-hloom anew In fields more green, and skies more hlue; Lov E, hurning wtih Religion's flame, Each hope, each fear, each Joy the same Souls, hoth as one, commingled there, The same hright hope, the same sweet prayer, The cross, their common hond—the seal That faith, which each profess and feel: Oh! this is love, surpassing far, What all mere earthly passions are; More pure, more lovely' and more warm Than lit hy fairest earthly form.

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