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At Thy almighty and omnific word
This vast stupendous universe arose;
Thy power sustains it, and Thou canst dispose Of all at will, amenable to none.
Thy dread omnipotence what can oppose 1 As dust all nations by Thy breath are blown:
Ten thousand ministers of vengeance stand,
Obsequious waiting thy supreme command.
Thou bidd'st the thunders roll, the lightnings gleam, Commission'd whom to smite, and whom to save; While storms and tempests desolate and rave,
Or sink in slumbers at Thy awful nod;
Earth trembling yawns, an all-engulphing grave,
And melt the mountains at Thy touch, O God:
Thou King of kings, dread Potentate Divine,
All rule and power in earth and heaven are Thine!
Unnumbered orbs, belched from Thy puissant hand,
Their mystic flights in harmony pursue,
In beaming lustre through the trackless blue,
Obeying gloriously Thy high behest;
Ethereal shrines, which ne'er pollution knew,
All gay with life, with bliss unmingled bless'd.
Where all acknowledge, homage, and adore,
Thy might, dominion, glory, evermore.
Life of all life, quintessence underived,
Whose vital energy in all we trace,
The earth, the ocean, and the depths of space
Thy presence mirror bright to every eye:
No thought, volition, action, state, or place,
Eludes Thy deep omniscient scrutiny,
All eye, all ear, all intellect, sublime,
Pervading all eternity and time.
Alone in holiness, in justice, truth,
Above conception, and beyond all praise,
Yet nature's tacit eloquence betrays
Thy love and mercy, vigilance and care;
Embracing all, in endless forms and ways,
Unwearied and impartial, everywhere—
Seen in the mite, as man and angel clear,
Bright in the atom as the rolling sphere.
But what am I, to merit thy regard?
A worm, an insect, into being brought
But yesterday; to-morrow gone; forgot
Quite by the world, as if I ne'er had been;
Guilty, polluted, vile in deed and thought,
Debased and wretched, and deformed by sin,
A sullied miniature of pristine worth:
Compared with Thee, a nothing upon earth.
Still I am something, which Thy notice claims,
And shares Thy sympathy, divine and pure:
From day to day Thy mercies still endure,
For oh! Thy name and nature, God, are love!
In me Thy spirit breathes an earnest sure,
Of joys immortal in the realms above;
Hence, guide me by Thy truth where'er I stray, Till freed my soul shall thither wing her way!
ADDRESS TO A THRUSH WHILE
fING on, sweet minstrel of the wood and grove!
Enshrined, as wonted, in thy towering plain;
With ravished ear I hail thy artless strain
Of soul-inspiring symphony and love.
Would that this cold and callous heart of mine *
Glowed with instinctive praise like that of thine!
Sing on, thou lovely Thrush! thy heart is light;
No dark forebodings nor regret are there:
Wrapt in the present, while no rankling care
Conspires thy vocal melody to blight;
Unlike the wretch assailed by guilt and fears—
His songs are sighs, his scene "a vale of tears."
Sing on, my favourite of the powers of song,
Thrice dear remembrancer of other days,
Of other joys and feelings, which thy lays
In fond imagination yet prolong!
Ah, then, sweet Thrush, like thine, my heart was
young, Bounding and free, with love and gladness strung.
Sing on, my loved one! how the bosom sighs;
What chords are there still tangible by thee,
Those slumbering memories endeared to me,
Death-blasted hopes, and friendship's broken ties;
Thy powers awake, renew, and knit once more,
And scenes recall I fondly trod of yore.
Sing on, thou soft magician of the heart!
Who points the tube at thee with evil eye,
May vengeance seize him, pity spurn his cry;
The callous miscreant, cursed be his art.
Humanity responds her sad Amen:
And now adieu !—perchance we meet again.
TO THE MEMOBY OF M. S., MY WIFE. OWL, ye bleak winds of hoary dark November,
(^ Faint type of that dark winter of my soul;
Can this lorn heart ere cease it to remember,
Till cold as hers, and reached of life the goal,
That hallowed hour,—oh heaven!—when life's last
Alone I saw expire—that look, the whole
Of the last scene—can I forget or tarry
Thus to embalm the honoured name of Mary?
Vainly, alas! in prattling fascination,
Tries our loved little one to soothe the smart
Of the sad blighting, withering dispensation,
Icing the inmost fountains of the heart.
Palsied its thrill, extinguished the sensation
Her nameless sympathies could once impart,
As turns the eye, as instinct calls it forth,
On nought but memories of departed worth.
Hushed now the groan, long patent to the pillow,
Of meek submission to the will supreme,
Bending to it, as pliant nods the willow,
Kissed by the breeze that fans the summer stream.
"Thy will be done," in breasting the dark billow,
Her parting watchword, as her daily theme,
Sighed deep in virtuous confidence and fear—
Its thrilling accents still methinks I hear.
Now the frail bark hath weather'd the rough ocean,
And in the peaceful haven safely lies;
Run now the race, 'mid plaudits and commotion,
Oif bears the speedy the immortal prize.
The battle over, fought with stern devotion,
To the reward the breathless victor flies,
No more to conquer, and in triumph glorious,
Resigns the armour amid shouts victorious.
Thrice hallowed shade, imperishable spirit!
Still glows the star, though night cimmerian reign:
What bliss not thine 1 when, through vicarious merit,
Absorbed in spirits' glorious source again: