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CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST.
AND HE AROSE AND REBUKED THE WIND, AND SAID
UNTO THE SEA, PEACE, BE STILL.
Night mantles Judea but the star has not shone
On thy bosom, Galilee,–
Is labouring o'er the sea:
Heeds not the Redeemer the thunder's increase?
Shall he not the proud whirlwind disarm?
With Jesus all is calm.
The disciples in terror have sprung from their rest,
Yet vain is the shipmen's skill, Till aroused He of Nazareth proclaims the behest:
“Ye billows, peace, be still!” The billows obedient have sunk on the shore, The sea sleeps in murmurs, the tempest is o'er.
O thus, when my soul on life's ocean is tost,
That sea without a calm-
And all is rude alarm:
When the waves of remembrance in mountain
wreaths roll, When the billows of sin have gone over my soul:
At the Cross of the Sufferer while humbled to weep,
I mourn my stubborn will;
And whisper “Peace! be still!”
'TIS WELL THAT YE REJECT THE CUP.
'Tis well that ye reject the cup
Whose dregs are poison all ;
Nor at the banquet hall.
Madly, unto that hell.
Their country's truest pride;
And perish in the tide.
That swell the guilty scroll ;
The vulture of the soul.
Sword, flesh thy yet unsated blade;
Of thousands drink the gore; Yet hath the cup inglorious laid
In death, its thousands more.
And bid its thickest bow;
Pestilence, more than thou.
Beware! nor yonder goblet grasp,
Now sparkling to the brim:
Though gems shone round the rim.
That far its fragrance flings Avoid it—'tis to reason's sight
A serpent armed with stings.
DEATH OF THE PATRIOTS, JOHN ADAMS AND
THOMAS JEFFERSON, JULY 4, 1826.
The trump of war rings loudly, yet
Burns brighter Glory's flame;
To seal the scroll of fame.
That bids the life-pulse start;
They shrink not from the unequal fray,
These noble, godlike men;
Cords that bind not again-
For God the lot is east;
The Rubicon is passed.
Years that have flown, ye gave to birth
Deeds of the lofty Brave;
Sits queen on Slavery's grave.
That battled, toiled, and bled, Have gone in the ray of Victory's light
To join the martyr-dead.
Blest is their lot, no common mould
Inwraps the veteran's form;
Where beats not Sorrow's storm.
Thus hallowed your Proud Day, When in thunders of that Jubilee
Your spirits passed away.
Yea, while our anthems rolled afar,
And our banners floated high, Glory sublimely wreathed the car
That bore ye to the sky.
Released, ye wait in flesh not now
The spirit-stirring call;
'Tis glorious thus to fall.
Touch not that gift! it is hallowed to feeling,
To the virtues of him that in glory has fled; An offering, a nation's emotion revealing,
'Tis sacred to fame, it belongs to the dead. Lay it, ye worthy, with hearts proudly beating,
On altars lit brightly with gratitude's fires; Bless to his memory the home of kind greeting,
Preserve to his offspring the hall of his sires. He has fled in his griefs, even now to that spirit,
Haply it lingers around us in love-
Blessings bequeathed by the sainted above.
Ye unrevealed ages! eternize the glory,
That already a star on your vestibule glows; Men! letter the rock with the deeds of his story,
Honour the spot where his ashes repose.
* Occasioned by the proposition that the Jefferson Fund should, in consequence of the death of the patriot, be appropriated to other than the original design of liquidating his debts.