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Will the cold earth its silence break,
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So music past is obsolete,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,
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,
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;
I bend my knee to thee.
My race will run,
I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done!
W. K. WHITE.
THE LORD'S DAY.
How welcome to the saints, when press'd
Which hides them from the world awhile!
Now from the throng withdrawn away,
How happy if their lot is cast
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
With joy they hasten to the place
This favour'd lot, my friends, is ours;
We thank thee for thy day, O Lord!
HYMNS FOR THE SEASONS.
How smiling wakes the verdant year
How glad the circling fields appear,
Forth walks from heav'n the beaming Spring,
And o'er the Winter's mutt'ring king
Her veil of roses spreads.
The sky serene, the waking flowers,
With all the charms they gave.
And hark! From yon melodious grove
The feather'd warblers break;
And into notes of joy and love
And shall the first belov'd of heaven
Shall man, to whom the lyre is giv'n
O let me join th' aspiring lay,
Join, but in louder notes than they,
For see, 'tis mildness, beauty, all
And nature's verdant charms recall
O thou, from whose all-gracious eye
O'er nature's green and teeming fields
And ev'ry sweet, creation yields,
Where yonder moves the plough of toil
O kindly lift the yielding soil,
Thence bid gay fruitfulness around
As with her smiles, life's weary vale
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 whom her purple charms belong,
Each budding flow'r its incense brings,
The fields with verdant mantle gay,
When Morn, with rosy fingers fair,
Man starts from emblematic death,
When Noon averts his radiant face,
Repos'd beneath thy guardian winds
Nor knows one watchful care that springs
What then, if pealing thunders roll,
Undaunted hears his sainted soul
The elemental war.