'Tis audience-hour unto that throng, Alone with Deity. How glorious is this canopy! 'Tis seemly with its regal rays, 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, 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, And walks their camp at offering-hour, 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, 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, Expression of a deep-felt rest, CC FOR THE ORPHAN. 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? Mother! didst thou in that hour, Did the Angel hush his wrath, Has thy lip been spared the cup? Sit beneath dark shadows now, Haste with offerings, large and free, Mercy's sacrifices bring, Cause the weeper's heart to sing; What are pearls of brightest hue, THE SAILOR AS HE WAS-AS HE IS. THE sport of yon deceitful wave, Unknown the power that stayed his youth, With kindly impulse shone. Fierce, the careering midnight storm While the red lightning scathed his form, His curse was heard on high. The thunders shook the reeling mast, No tear was given to the past, Nor to futurity. Then burst the cry of agony, Then quailed the stoutest on that deck; No prayer was wafted to the throne- Weep, Sailor! for thy comrade weep, Oh, had he scanned the living chart, Weep for the dead! yet with thy tears The Man of Nazareth calls to thee, |