Our eyes have seen the rosy light

Of youth's soft cheek decay, And fate descend in sudden night

On manhood's middle day.

Our eyes have seen the steps of age

Halt feebly towards the tomb, And yet shall earth our hearts engage,

And dreams of days to come ?

Turn, mortal, turn ! thy danger know;

Where'er thy foot can tread,
The earth rings hollow from below,

And warns thee of her dead !

Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply

To truths divinely given ;
The bones that underneath thee lie

Shall live for Hell or Heaven !

“ COME OVER AND HELP US !”

From Greenland's icy mountains,

From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains

Roll down their golden sand ; From many an ancient river,

From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

What though the spicy breezes

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,

And only man is vile ;
In vain with lavish kindness,

The gifts of God are strewn,
The Heathen, in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone.

Can we, whose souls are lighted

With wisdom from on high, Can we, to men benighted,

The lamp of life deny ? Salvation ! oh, Salvation !

The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation

Has learned Messiah's name.

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,

And you, ye waters, roll, Till like a sea of glory

It spreads from pole to pole ; Till o'er our ransomed nature

The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss returns to reign.

“ HIS FEET SHALL STAND ON THE MOUNT OF OLIVES."

The Lord will come! the earth shall quake,
The hills their fixed seat forsake ;
And, withering, from the vault of night,
The stars withdraw their feeble light.

The Lord will come! but not the same
As once in lowly form He came,
A silent Lamb to slaughter led,
The bruised, the suffering, and the dead.

The Lord will come ! a dreadful form,
With wreath of flame, and robe of storm,
On cherub wings, and wings of wind,
Anointed Judge of human kind!

Can this be He who wont to stray
A pilgrim on the world's highway;
By power oppress’d, and mock'd by pride ?
Oh God! is this the Crucified ?

Go, tyrants ! to the rocks complain! Go, seek the mountain's clefts in vain! But death, victorious o'er the tomb, Shall sing for joy—the Lord is come!