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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;
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;
The peace of passions slain.
Expression of a deep-felt rest,
Wearing the hues of heaven;
The joy of sin forgiven.
FOR THE ORPHAN.
Hast thou marked the scourge of God?
Mother! didst thou in that hour,
Did the Angel hush his wrath,
Has thy lip been spared the cup?
Haste with offerings, large and free,
Mercy's sacrifices bring,
What are pearls of brightest hue,
THE SAILOR AS HE WAS-AS HE IS.
The sport of yon deceitful wave,
Stranger to thought or fear.
With kindly impulse shone.
Fierce, the careering midnight storm
His curse was heard on high.
The thunders shook the reeling mast,
Nor to futurity.
To plunge, a buried wreck.
His spirit fled away.
To his eternity.
The wanderer ne'er had strayed.
Hope's beaming star is thine.
Speaks to the weary, Peace.