ROCK'D IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP.
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep,
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure, I rest upon the wave,
For thou, O Lord, hast power to save.
I know thou wilt not slight my call,
For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall;
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.
And such the trust that still were mine,
Tho' stormy winds sweep o'er the brine,
Or though the tempest's fiery breath
Rous'd me from slumber to wreck and death.
In ocean cave still safe with Thee,
The germ of immortality;
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.
A PSALM OF LIFE.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Find us further than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral-marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime;
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time,—
Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait!
Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,
Utter'd or unexpress'd;
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear;
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high.
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air,
His watchword at the gates of death-
He enters heaven by prayer.
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;
While angels, in their songs rejoice,
And say, "Behold! he prays!"
The saints in prayer appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind,
When, with the Father and his Son,
Their fellowship they find.
Nor prayer is made on earth alone-
The Holy Spirit pleads;
And Jesus, on the eternal throne,
For sinners intercedes.
O Thou, by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way,
The path of prayer Thyself hast trode-
Lord, teach us how to pray!
THE QUADROON GIRL.
The Slaver in the broad lagoon
Lay moored, with idle sail;
He waited for the rising moon,
And for the evening gale.
Under the shore his boat was tied,
And all her listless crew
Watched the grey alligator slide
Into the still bayou.
Odours of orange-flowers and spice
Reached them from time to time,
Like airs that breathe from Paradise
Upon a world of crime.
The Planter, under his roof of thatch,
Smoked thoughtfully and slow;
The Slaver's thumb was on the latch,
He seemed in haste to go.
He said, "My ship at anchor rides
In yonder broad lagoon ;
I only wait the evening tides,
And the rising of the moon.
Before them, with her face upraised,
In timid attitude,
Like one half-curious, half-amazed,
A Quadroon maiden stood.
Her eyes were, like a falcon's, grey,
Her arms and neck were bare;
No garment she wore, save a kirtle gay,
And her own long raven hair.
And on her lips there played a smile,
As holy, meek, and faint,
As lights, in some cathedral aisle,
The features of a saint.
"The soil is barren-the farm is old," The thoughtful Planter said;
|