That smile on Faith's pale brow has shone, That calm is yielding breath; That hour is to the righteous known COME! WHEN God his wrathful stores called out Of this, mine anger, passeth by:” And when again the cry went up In latter time Redemption's plan, Conceived ere worlds in space were hung Unfolded, and the Son of Man Sojourned a ruined race among: And still the Incarnate Teacher cried, "Come, thirsty, come! and thirst ye never:" And till in pangs he bowed and died, He bade men come and live for ever. Now speaketh out Jehovah's love, In tones to chide, entreat, alarm, Or gospel woes, is this the sum: The Spirit and the Bride say, Come! THE SOLDIERS OF THE CROSS. THE soldiers of the cross Led by the anointed Son, Know not of shame or loss, Their watchword still is "On”Onward! till o'er a rebel world Victorious banners are unfurled. Whose flag looks o'er the field On waving folds revealed, Who next?-a lamb-like throng, Their Shepherd's peaceful reign: And he shall lead with gentle rule His chosen of the Sunday School. And see! a noble band, Whose lifted sheet of heaven Displays from land to land The leaves for healing given; Where'er its spangled glories burn The nations from the dead return. One army of the Prince, One note their trumpets tell, And theirs the battle, since Their leader vanquished hell. To perish is to win renown, To fall, to reach a sparkling crown. To arms! 't were glorious boon With these stout hearts to die; To arms! for victory soon Shall be the stirring cry: Yet every crown and palm shall meet, Where victory dwells, at Jesus' feet. APOSTROPHE TO THE BRIG TONTINE, BOUND FOR GREECE, FROM PHILADELPHIA, WITH PROVISIONS FOR THE SUFFERING GREEKS: March 23, 1827. SAIL on! and cheer men that have waited Smooth be the storm-swept deep before thee; O, as thy track thou'rt proudly cleaving For Greece, her truly Spartan daughters, Sail on! sail on! thou bearest burden And thy avails-aye, they're the guerdon TO GEORGE B. ENGLISH, ESQ. ON HIS RENOUNCING THE CHRISTIAN, FOR THE MOHAMMEDAN FAITH. WHY, in error's wilds astray, Youth, aspiring, art thou found? On the blessed Son of God? Shines the robe of Moorish mail Youth! the incense is not thine, In the contrite heart is seen Treasures, known not to thy heaven; Yea the tears of Magdalene Dim the charms to Houries given. Songs of mirth are thine, to me Dearer is the music, holy, Such as from Gethsemane Comes in tones of melancholy. |