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Behold the sun, that seem'd but now

Enthroned over head, Beginning to decline below

The globe whereon we tread;
And he, whom yet we look upon

With comfort and delight,
Will quite depart from hence anon,

And leave us to the night.

Thus time, unheeded, steals away

The life which nature gave,
Thus are our bodies every day

Declining to the grave:
Thus from us all our pleasures fly

Whereon we set our heart,
And then the night of death draws nigh;

Thus will they all depart.

Lord! though the sun forsake our sight,

And mortal hopes are vain,
Let still Thine everlasting light

Within our souls remain!
And in the nights of our distress

Vouchsafe those rays divine
Which from the Sun of righteousness

For ever brightly shine.

G. Withers


In token that thou shalt not fear

Christ crucified to own,'
We print the cross upon thee here,

And stamp thee His alone.

In token that thou shalt not blush

To glory in His name,
We blazon here upon thy front

His glory and His shame.

In token that thou shalt not flinch
Christ's quarrel to maintain,

But 'neath His banner manfully
Firm at thy post remain;

In token that thou too shalt tread

The path He travell'd by,
Endure the cross, despise the shame,

And sit thee down on high;

Thus outwardly, and visibly,

We seal thee for His own: And may the brow that wears His cross

Hereafter share His crown.

H. Alford


Say, watchman, what of the night?

Do the dews of the morning fall? Have the orient skies a border of light,

Like the fringe of a funeral pall?

"The night is fast waning on high,

And soon shall the darkness flee, And the morn shall spread o'er the blushing sky,

And bright shall its glories be."

But, watchman, what of the night,

When sorrow and pain are mine,
And the pleasures of life, so sweet and bright,

No longer around me shine?

"That night of sorrow thy soul

May surely prepare to meet;
But away shall the clouds of thy heaviness roll,

And the morning of joy be sweet."

But, watchman, what of the night

When the arrow of death is sped, And the grave, which no glimmering star can light,

Shall be my sleeping bed?

"That night is near, and the cheerless tomb

Shall keep thy body in store,
Till the morn of eternity rise on the gloom,

And night shall be no more."



Launch thy bark, mariner! Christian, Heaven speed

thee, Let loose the rudder bands! good angels lead thee! Set thy sails warily, tempests will come: Steer thy course steadily! Christian, steer home!

Look to the weather bow, breakers are round thee! Let fall the plummet now, shallows may ground

Reef in the fore-sail there! hold the helm fast!
So—let the vessel wear! there swept the blast.

What of the night, watchman? what of the night?
"Cloudy—all quiet—no land yet—all's right."
Be wakeful, be vigilant, danger may be
At an hour when all seems securest to thee.

How—gains the leak so fast? clear out the hold,
Hoist up thy merchandise—heave out the gold!
There—let the ingots go! now the ship rights;
Hurrah! the harbour's near,—lo the red lights.

Slacken not sail yet at inlet or island,
Straight for the beacon steer—straight for the high-
Crowd all thy canvass on, cut through the foam,
Christian! cast anchor now: Heaven is thy home!

C. Southey



I mourn no more my vanish'd years:

Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,

My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and singing low
I hear the glad streams run,

The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward, nor behind,

I look in hope and fear:
But grateful, take the good I find,

The best of now, and here.

I plough no more a desert land
For harvest, weed and tare;

The manna dropping from God's hand
Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay

Aside the toiling oar;
The angel sought so far away

I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play

Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May

Blow through the autumn morn;

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