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Behold the sun, that seem'd but now
Enthroned over head, Beginning to decline below
The globe whereon we tread;
With comfort and delight,
And leave us to the night.
Thus time, unheeded, steals away
The life which nature gave,
Declining to the grave:
Whereon we set our heart,
Thus will they all depart.
Lord! though the sun forsake our sight,
And mortal hopes are vain,
Within our souls remain!
Vouchsafe those rays divine
For ever brightly shine.
cxv BAPTISMAL HYMN
In token that thou shalt not fear
Christ crucified to own,'
And stamp thee His alone.
In token that thou shalt not blush
To glory in His name,
His glory and His shame.
In token that thou shalt not flinch
But 'neath His banner manfully
In token that thou too shalt tread
The path He travell'd by,
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.
cxvi WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
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,
No longer around me shine?
"That night of sorrow thy soul
May surely prepare to meet;
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,
And night shall be no more."
THE MARINER'S HYMN
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
What of the night, watchman? what of the night?
How—gains the leak so fast? clear out the hold,
Slacken not sail yet at inlet or island,
I mourn no more my vanish'd years:
Beneath a tender rain,
My heart is young again.
The west winds blow, and singing low
The windows of my soul I throw
No longer forward, nor behind,
I look in hope and fear:
The best of now, and here.
I plough no more a desert land
The manna dropping from God's hand
I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar;
I welcome at my door.
The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Blow through the autumn morn;