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'Tis audience-hour unto that throng,

Alone with Deity.

How glorious is this canopy!

And gorgeous daybreak brings Its curtains, bathed in golden dye,

Wrought for the King of kings.

'Tis seemly with its regal rays,

Thus to pour out to him Our songs, before whose throne the blaze

Of burning noon is dim.

'Tis beautiful in such a spot,

To note from lip of men His praise, where Art's proud dome is not,

By stream and wooded glen.

And list, from yon white tents, at eve,

Where worshippers are bowed, The sighs of those for sin that grieve,

Among that waiting crowd.

They rise on evening's wing, which seems

To fan a holier air ; As flows from humble hearts, in streams,

The melody of prayer.

And One draws near this peopled bower,

Whose are these chosen now;
And walks their camp at offering-hour,

Recording every vow.

And at that banquet sitteth he,

Where banners twine above; Men know their guest, and long to see

More of his heaven of love.

If, bright ones! from your world of gold,

Ye look for aught, in this Resembling that, this hour behold

Its counterpart of bliss.

More glorious than when morning reigns

In splendour o'er your skies; More touching than when twilight stains

The clouds with sunset dies:

It is the face to look upon

Of such, new born again;
To mark the glow of victory won,

The peace of passions slain.

Expression of a deep-felt rest,

Wearing the hues of heaven;
It beams the quiet of the blessed,

The joy of sin forgiven.



Hast thou marked the scourge of God?
Didst thou tremble at his rod,
When thou lately saw'st him stand
At the portals of our land;
When he looked and waved it here?
Haste to dry the widow's tear!

Mother! didst thou in that hour,
Give to earth its fairest Aower?
'Twas in anguish-He hath given
For thy bruise, the balm of heaven;
Thou art comforted-go, bless
In its woes, the motherless.

Did the Angel hush his wrath,
As he crossed thy midnight path?
Then, when thousands rose to shed
Bitter tears upon their dead,
While without, was heard the cry,
None thou lovest sealed to die?

Has thy lip been spared the cup?
These have drank the mixture up;
These were basking yesterday
In a kinder sun-as they
Sit beneath dark shadows now,
Sister! brother! so mayst thou.

Haste with offerings, large and free,
Wings of mercy sheltered thee;

Mercy's sacrifices bring,
Cause the weeper's heart to sing;
Heard above is blessing-prayer,
Grief and Want have power there.

What are pearls of brightest hue,
Diamonds, like the drops of dew,
In the loveliest tresses glowing,
Nature's fainter beauties showing,
To the gem of splendour here,
Gratitude's impressive tear?


The sport of yon deceitful wave,
He toiled where dangers oft appear;
And careless trod the billowy grave,

Stranger to thought or fear.
Unknown the power that stayed his youth,
The God that holds the sea unknown
On his dark soul no ray of truth

With kindly impulse shone.

Fierce, the careering midnight storm
In anger mingled wave and sky;
While the red lightning scathed his form,

His curse was heard on high.

The thunders shook the reeling mast,
The vessel rent by every sea-
No tear was given to the past,

Nor to futurity.
Then burst the cry of agony,
Then quailed the stoutest on that deck;
The toiling barque hath climbed on high,

To plunge, a buried wreck.
No prayer was wafted to the throne-
Could the profane, the scoffer pray?
No! wretched, trembling and alone,

His spirit fled away.
Weep, Sailor! for thy comrade weep,
For he was noble, generous, free;
Yet passed he in transgression deep,

To his eternity.
Oh, had he scanned the living chart,
By which the unerring course is laid,
His vision purged, made clean in heart,

The wanderer ne'er had strayed.
Weep for the dead! yet with thy tears
Blend earnest love for grace divine;
Sailor! a happier dawn appears

Hope's beaming star is thine.
The Man of Nazareth calls to thee,
He bids thy toils and sorrows cease;
The voice that calmed proud Galilee,

Speaks to the weary, Peace.

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