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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.
THE STAR-LIGHT NIGHT.
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
Should pine within this narrow place,
What madness from the path of right
That, reckless of thy pure delight,
To chase a shade that mocks the sight—
Man slumhers heedless on, nor feels,
The rolling of the rapid wheels
While every passing moment steals
Awake, ye mortals, raise your eyes
Look on these glories of the skies!
With all its pomps and vanities,
Wliat, hut a speck of earth at last,
Amidst the illimitahle sky,
Effulgence of yon galaxy;
The present, and the future lie.
Who can look forth upon this hlaze
Through the unhounded void of space,
All moving with unequal pace,
Who that has seen these splendors roll,
But sigh' d to 'scape the world's control,
To hurst the honds that hind the soul,
There in their starry halls of rest,
Sweet Peace and Joy their homes have
There in the mansions of the hlest,
With ever-during glory graced,
O houndless heauty! let thy ray
That never darken'st into night;
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,
Tuns, without life, how sweet to live-
THE FIRST SABBATH.
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
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.
This day my Saviour rose,
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 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,
Nearer to join the heavenly song,
These moments of departing day,
Are surely solemn times to pray,
Thou God of mercy, swift to hear,
Be Thou to us this evening near,
Teach us to pray—and, having tanght,
Without thy teaching—prayer is nought,
Sweet is the light of Saerath Eve,
Those sacred hours this low earth leave,
This time, how lovely and how still I
The plain, the stream, the wood, the hill,
Season Op Rest! the tranquil soul
And while these sacred moments roll,
How short the time, how soon the sun
And soon the hours of rest are done,
Yet will our journey not he long,
And we shall join the ceaseless song,
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,
Will Sahhaths lost appear,
Then, in that hopeless place,
I had those hours of grace,
God of these Sahhath hours,
To waste in thoughts of ours
THE MILLENNIAL SABBATH.
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
Kmanuei,!—thy sceptre hends
Commerce! not now, as once of old.
Within the cot, within the tower,
Wherever we may roam;
How sweet is every home!
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.