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Will the cold earth its silence break,
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek
Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O'er Beauty's fall,

Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.

The most belov'd on earth

Not long survives to-day;

So music past is obsolete,

And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid.

Then since this world is vain,

And volatile and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys,

Where rust corrupts, where moth destroys,
And cares and sorrows eat?

Why fly from ill

With anxious skill,

When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still?

Come, Disappointment, come !

Thou art not stern to me;
Sad Monitress! I owe thy sway,
A votary sad in early day,

I bend my knee to thee.
From sun to sun

My race will run,

I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done!



How welcome to the saints, when press'd
With six days' noise, and care and toil,
Is the returning day of rest,

Which hides them from the world awhile!

Now from the throng withdrawn away,
They seem to breathe a diff'rent air;
Compos'd and soften'd by the day,
All things another aspect wear.

How happy if their lot is cast
Where statedly the gospel sounds!

The word is honey to their taste,

Renews their strength, and heals their wounds!

Though pinch'd with poverty at home,

With sharp afflictions daily fed,

It makes amends, if they can come
To God's own house for heav'nly bread!

With joy they hasten to the place
Where they their Saviour oft have met;
And while they feast upon his grace,
Their burdens and their griefs forget.

This favour'd lot, my friends, is ours;
May we the privilege improve,
And find these consecrated hours
Sweet earnest of the joys above.

We thank thee for thy day, O Lord!
Here we thy promis'd presence seek ;
Open thine hand, with blessings stor❜d,
And give us manna for the week.




How smiling wakes the verdant year
Array'd in velvet green!

How glad the circling fields appear,
That bound the blooming scene!

Forth walks from heav'n the beaming Spring,
Calm as the dew she sheds;

And o'er the Winter's mutt'ring king

Her veil of roses spreads.

The sky serene, the waking flowers,
The river's loosen'd wave,
Repay the kind and tepid hours

With all the charms they gave.

And hark! From yon melodious grove

The feather'd warblers break;

And into notes of joy and love
The solitude awake!

And shall the first belov'd of heaven
Mute listen as they sing;

Shall man, to whom the lyre is giv'n
Not wake one grateful string?

O let me join th' aspiring lay,
That gives my Maker praise;

Join, but in louder notes than they,
Than all their pleasures raise !
From stormy Winter hoar and chill
Warm scenes of peace arise:
For ever thus from seeming ill
Heav'n every good supplies.

For see, 'tis mildness, beauty, all
Around the laughing whole;


And nature's verdant charms recall
The mildness of the soul.

O thou, from whose all-gracious eye
The sun of splendour beams;
Whose glories ev'ry ray supply,
That gilds the trembling streams;

O'er nature's green and teeming fields
Bid flow'ry graces rise,

And ev'ry sweet, creation yields,
Salute the morning skies.

Where yonder moves the plough of toil
Along the stubborn land,

O kindly lift the yielding soil,
And soothe the lab'ring hand.

Thence bid gay fruitfulness around
Her blooming reign extend;
And where thy richest gifts are found,
Tell who the heav'nly friend.

As with her smiles, life's weary vale
Is gentler trod below;

With thine, the closing home we hail, That shuts us in from woe!

Till that celestial home is ours,

Let us its Lord implore,

Content may cheer our pilgrim hours,

And guide us to the door.


BRIGHT Summer beams along the sky, And paints the glowing year; Where'er we turn the raptured eye, Her splendid tints appear!

Then when so fit to lift the song
To gratitude and heav'n,

To whom her purple charms belong,
From whom those charms are giv'n?
Thee, thee, Almighty King of kings,
Man worships not alone;

Each budding flow'r its incense brings,
And wafts it to thy throne.

The fields with verdant mantle gay,
The grove's sequester'd walks,
All, all around, thy praise display,
And dumb creation talks.

When Morn, with rosy fingers fair,
Her golden journey takes ;
When fresh'ning Zephyrs fan the air,
And animation wakes;

Man starts from emblematic death,
And bends the grateful knee
To welcome with transported breath
New light, and life, and thee!

When Noon averts his radiant face,
And shuts his piercing eye;
And Eve, with modest measur'd pace,
Steps up the western sky,

Repos'd beneath thy guardian winds
The pious mortal rests;

Nor knows one watchful care that springs
Within unholy breasts.

What then, if pealing thunders roll,
If lightnings flash afar!

Undaunted hears his sainted soul

The elemental war.

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