Pagina-afbeeldingen
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CHARLES WESLEY.

STANZAS FROM "THE TRUE USE | Visit, then, this soul of mine,

OF MUSIC."

LISTED into the cause of sin,
Why should a good be evil?
Music, alas! too long has been

Pressed to obey the devilDrunken, or lewd, or light, the lay Flowed to the soul's undoingWidened, and strewed with flowers, the way

Down to eternal ruin.

Who on the part of God will rise,
Innocent sound recover-
Fly on the prey, and take the prize,
Plunder the carnal lover-
Strip him of every moving strain,
Every melting measure—
Music in virtue's cause retain,
Rescue the holy pleasure?

Come, let us try if Jesus' love
Will not as well inspire us;
This is the theme of those above-
This upon earth shall fire us.
Say, if your hearts are tuned to sing
Is there a subject greater?
Harmony all its strains may bring;
Jesus' name is sweeter.

THE ONLY LIGHT.

CHRIST, whose glory fills the skies, Christ, the true, the only Light, Sun of Righteousness, arise, Triumph o'er the shades of night! Day-spring from on high, be near! Day-star, in my heart appear!

Dark and cheerless is the morn
Unaccompanied by Thee;
Joyless is the day's return

Till Thy mercy's beams I see; Till they inward light impart, Glad my eyes and warm my heart.

Pierce the gloom of sin and grief! Fill me, Radiancy Divine,

Scatter all my unbelief!
More and more Thyself display,
Shining to the perfect day.

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THINK not some knowledge rests with thee alone.
Why, even God's stupendous secret, Death,
We one by one, with our expiring breath,
Do, pale with wonder, seize and make our own.
The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown
Despite her careful hiding; and the air
Yields its mysterious marvels in despair,

To swell the mighty storehouse of things known.

In vain the sea expostulates and raves;
It cannot cover from the keen world's sight
The curious wonders of its coral caves.
And so, despite thy caution or thy tears,
The prying fingers of detective years
Shall drag thy secret out into the light.

BLANCO WHITE.

TO NIGHT.

MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first | And lo! creation widened in man's

parent knew

Thee from report divine, and heard

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view.

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed

Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,

While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed,

Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent That to such countless orbs thou

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Thee when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,

Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,

Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms

Of chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,

Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.

SOLITUDE.

IT is not that my lot is low,

That bids this silent tear to flow; It is not grief that bids me moan, It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home;

Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallowed airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

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From vanity,

What is this passing scene!

A peevish April day!
A little sun-a little rain,
And then night sweeps along the
plain,

And all things fade away.
Man (soon discussed)
Yields up his trust,

And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.

Oh, what is beauty's power?
It flourishes and dies;

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 the pall.

The most beloved 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 beloved is laid.

Then since this world is vain,

And volatile and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and 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 own thy sway, A votary sad in early day,

I bend my knee to thee.

From sun to sun

My race will run,

And point to scenes of bliss that I only bow and say, My God, Thy

never, never die.

will be done.

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