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A voice to the Old Men!-speed ye the prayer,
A voice to the living! it comes from the dead;
By the stillness that lingers round their graves
It calls ye, invites-demands ye, and know
SUNDAY SCHOOL JUBILEE.
We praise thee, Lord, for light that shone
On England first, revealed from thee, And now hath noon-tide splendours thrown
Around our festive jubilee.
In gladness and in peace it came
To win the troubled wanderer nigh ; Its symbol was a Saviour's name,
Its token toil, its watchword “ Try!”
Its eagle track is high in air;
Its standard sheet is wide unfurled, Whose waving folds of victory bear
Release and ransom to a world.
Joy for its blessings to the child
That ages saw flung back on sin; Now gathered from destruction's wild,
And brought the Shepherd's fold within.
Joy for its Christian-soldier bands
Whose high emprize hath millions blest; Whose march is o'er the Eastern lands,
Whose conquests reach the distant West.
O, as this hour, the world's deep gaze,
Withdrawn from its own dark misrule, Is fixed in wonder on the rays
That cluster round the Sunday School;
In that pure brightness bid it see
The day-dawn blushing o'er the skies, In whose meridian every knee
Shall bend, while earth's hosannas rise.
SUPPLICATION IN PROSPECT OF THE CHOLERA :
WRITTEN ON HEARING IT HAD ENTERED CANADA.
O God! thine oriental scourge
Its errand bade to run,
Climes of the setting sun.
Above his chariot is seen
The victor's flag unfurled;
To sweep the western world.
And on our troubled border, now
The mighty Terror stands;
Won from a thousand lands.
A moment stands—his steady march
Is onward, rousing fears;
Behind him only tears.
Our land, is it not valour's land,
The beautiful and free?
We owe it, Lord, to thee.
And vainly fling we round its hem
The sanitary line;
And crowd its walls with watch and guard,
To keep is only thine.
O rashly have we deemed our spear
Our stay, nor sought the throne;
To bind it on our own.
Now wisely taught our helplessness,
Thy justice and thy power,
Mercy's propitious hour.
Then come, not by thy messenger
Thyself thy children meet;
A nation at thy feet.
PRAISE FOR DELIVERANCE FROM PESTILENCE.
To God, who gave thee joys for tears,
And when it brooded o'er thee so, Rebuked the cloud that burst in fears,
And on it bent his beauteous bowGo, Man! that didst to judgment feel
Strange nearness, then, and trembled there; Go, and before thy Maker kneel
In deepest penitence and prayer.
And Woman! o'er whose heart has swept
The angel's wing—whose trusted stay Of hope is fallen, and who'st wept
O’er joys forever past away-
In lowliness approach the Power,
That shielded thee in peril's hour.
Child! to thy mother's joy restored,
In fairest beauty blossoming;
The budding freshness of thy spring.
And shed upon thee dews of love, That tall, and strongly, thou mayst grow,
A lovely plant for bowers above.
And ye! whose dwellings, hedged about,
The stern destroyer passed by,
Within, heard not the midnight cry— Go, with your songs, to him that threw
Salvation round your borders then, And in that night of horror drew
His curtain o'er ye-troubled men!
Hark, from those beds of pain, a voice
Hark to the whisper from those graves : “Rejoice with fear, and yet rejoice,
In Him that slays, in him that saves!”