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But as the Spring calls forth the flowers,
And biddeth vernal voices sing,

So widely through the wedding hours,
Bell-toned rejoicings ring.

And surely, gratefully to heaven,
Rise praises for our blessings given,—
Incense of faith, and hope, and love:
And surely now the people pray,
That when this life shall pass away,
The bride beloved and bridegroom may
Be welcomed to the bliss above.


WHEREFORE, when from the field of strife,

After fierce sacrifice of life,

Homeward the hero of the war

Returneth in triumphal car,Wherefore doth loud acclaim arise ? Wherefore rejoicings rend the skies? In yon red form the reason see,— The flame-bright form of Victory!

E'er since the peopling of the world,
Lusts have the flag of war unfurl'd:
Till now,
years fled long afar,
Historic hands have written-" WAR!"

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Yet battles have been fought and won,

Whose records never saw the sun;

For "tied and bound" have come forth free;
And angels shouted-Victory!

Oh! he who, in temptation, lives

On truth that strength to conquer gives;
Or, passing by the rocks of pride,
Where mocking tongues of scorn deride,
Keepeth his spirit well in hand,
His temper under wise command;
Like sunshine on a peaceful sea,
With him remaineth-Victory!

Oh! disappointment-breath of blight,—
May wither hopes with deadly might;
But he who, in the darksome day,
Girdeth his spirit for the fray;
And, like a firm tree's stately form,
Comes out the stronger for the storm;
Tho' leafy glory scatter'd be,—
What doth he win? The Victory!

The hero from the field of strife,
After fierce sacrifice of life,

Returning in triumphal car,
Crown'd with the glory of the war,

Has yet to face another foe,
And yield his body to the blow;
Then, should his soul defeated be,
No more, for him, of victory.

But he who-all unknown to fame,-
Although the angels knew his name,—
Had turn'd from death and doubt aside,
Unto the God-man crucified;

He has, in life's last battle-hour,

Through Christ, the more than conqueror's power;

He has, through all eternity,

The Victory! The VICTORY!


WITH, year by year, ten thousand clear;
With trusty, train'd attendance;
The common mind, to speak inclined,
That termeth independence!
And, beyond question, such estate,
Combined with understanding,
Would, in a worldly sense, be great,—
Commercially commanding.

But should I lose what God doth give,
What would there be remaining?
How is it likely I could live

A life all self-sustaining!

Is there a creature on the earth,
That calleth me its maker?
Was I the author of my birth,
Or aught whereof partaker?

Would I, if I could help it, part

With cheering earthly treasure?
Or suffer loss within my heart,
To be the death of pleasure?
If I could help it, would I let

The ghost of guilty error
My spirit's secret ways beset
With hateful forms of terror?

Can I command the corn to grow Where there has not been sowing? Or if the wind but list to blow,

Can I forbid the blowing? Could I be happy in my lot,

With cause of woe ascendant ? Or can I keep from death? if not, Where dwell the independent?

O, as the day, on sunny ray,
Dependeth for its being;
And as the sight, upon the light,
Dependeth for its seeing;

So on an everlasting Friend—

Our Father, God in heaven,

Do we, in life and death, depend,
For every good thing given.

List! 'tis the voice of one who sings,
Like bells of crystal ringing!
O, but the strain would well suit kings!
List, to his simple singing;-
"My life, while here awhile I roam,
Has daily wants attendant;
"Twill not be so when I get home,—
My Father's independent!"


OUR Street is call'd a Road, for, lo, in London,—
In London the Suburban, there have been
Improvements that old common contemplation
Had never in its dreams. There in the City,
Where people most do congregate, and where
There is most need of room, there is the least!
The City has no Road save City-Road,
And that leads to it only; yes, and from it;
But is, by no means, of it part and parcel.
The City has its bars,-the Temple, Holborn,
And those of Smithfield,—bars at least in name.

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