And when Thou didst depart, no car of flame To bear Thee hence in lambent radiance came : Nor visible angels mourned with drooping plumes: Nor didst Thou mount on high from fatal Calvary With all thine own redeemed outbursting from their tombs. For Thou didst bear away from earth
But one of human birth,
The dying felon by Thy side, to be
In Paradise with Thee.
Nor o'er Thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake;
A little while the conscious earth did shake
At that foul deed by her fierce children done;
A few dim hours of day the world in darkness lay;
Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun.
While Thou didst sleep beneath the tomb,
Consenting to Thy doom:
Ere yet the white-robed angel shone
Upon the sealed stone.
And when Thou didst arise, Thou didst not stand
With devastation in Thy red right hand,
Plaguing the guilty city's murderous crew;
But Thou didst haste to meet Thy mother's coming feet,
And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few.
Then calmly, slowly didst Thou rise
Into the native skies,
Thy human form dissolved on high
In its own radiancy.
To honour those who gave us birth,
To cheer their age, to feel their worth,
Is God's command to human kind,
And own'd by every grateful mind.
Trace then the tender scenes of old,
And all our infant days unfold;
Yield back to sight the mother's breast,
Watchful to lull her child to rest.
Survey her toil, her anxious care,
To form the lisping lips to pray'r;
To win for God the yielding soul,
And all its ardent thoughts control.
Nor hold from mem'ry's glad review
The fears which all the father knew ;
The joy that mark'd his thankful gaze
As virtue crown'd maturer days.
When press'd by sickness, pain, or grief,
How anxious they to give relief!
Our dearest wish they held their own :
Till ours return'd, their peace was flown.
God of our life, each parent guard,
And death's sad hour, O long retard!
Be theirs each joy that gilds the past,
And heaven our mutual home at last.
WHEN marshall'd on the nightly plain,
The glitt'ring host bestud the sky;
One star alone of all the train,
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the Star of Bethlehem.
Once on the raging seas I rode,
The storm was loud, the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd The wind that toss'd my found'ring bark.
Deep horrors then my vitals froze,
Death-struck-I ceas'd the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose,
It was the Star of Bethlehem.
It was my guide, my light, my all;
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And thro' the storm and danger's thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
For ever and for evermore,
The Star-the Star of Bethlehem !
HIGH in yonder realms of light,
Far above these lower skies,
Fair and exquisitely bright,
Heaven's unfading mansions rise :
Built of pure and massy gold,
Strong and durable are they ;
Deck'd with gems of worth untold,
Subjected to no decay!
Glad within these blest abodes,
Dwell the raptur'd saints above,
Where no anxious care corrodes,
Happy in Emmanuel's love!
Once, indeed, like us below,
Pilgrims in this vale of tears,
Torturing pain, and heavy woe,
Gloomy doubts, distressing fears :
These, alas! full well they knew,
Sad companions of their way;
Oft on them the tempest blew,
Through the long and cheerless day!
Oft their vileness they deplor'd,
Wills perverse and hearts untrue,
Griev'd they could not love their Lord,
Love Him as they wished to do.
Oft the big unbidden tear,
Stealing down the furrow'd cheek, Told, in eloquence sincere,
Tales of woe they could not speak :
But these days of weeping o'er,
Past this scene of toil and pain,
They shall feel distress no more,
Never, never weep again!
'Mid the chorus of the skies,
'Mid the angelic lyres above,
Hark! their songs melodious rise,
Songs of praise to Jesus' love!
Happy spirits! ye are fled,
Where no grief can entrance find;
Lull'd to rest the aching head,
Sooth'd the anguish of the mind!
All is tranquil and serene,
Calm and undisturb'd repose;
There no cloud can intervene,
There no angry tempest blows!
Every tear is wiped away,
Sighs no more shall heave the breast;
Night is lost in endless day
Sorrow-in eternal rest!
IF it be sad to speak of treasures gone,
Of sainted genius called too soon away,
Of light, from this world taken, while it shone
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day;
How shall our grief, if mournful these things be,
Flow forth, O thou of many gifts! for thee?
Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard?
And that deep soul of gentleness and power,
Have we not felt its breath in every word,
Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower? Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd, Of heaven they were, and thither have return'd.
How shall we mourn thee !-With a lofty trust,
Our life's immortal birthright from above!
With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just,
Thro' shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love,
And yet can weep!-for nature thus deplores
The friend that leaves us, tho' for happier shores.
And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier,
One strain of solemn rapture be allow'd !
Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career,
Not to decay, but unto death, hast bow'd;
In those bright regions of the rising sun,
Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won.
Praise! for yet one more name with power endow'd,
To cheer and guide us onward as we press!
Yet one more image, on the heart bestow'd,
To dwell there, beautiful in holiness!
Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead,
Shines as the star which to the Saviour led.
FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.
By cool Siloam's shady rill
How sweet the lily grows!
How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon's dewy rose !
Lo! such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod ;
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upward drawn to God!
By cool Siloam's shady rill
The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away:
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man's maturer age
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,
And stormy passion's rage!
O Thou, whose infant feet were found
Within Thy Father's shrine !
Whose years, with changeless virtue crown'd,
Were all alike Divine,
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