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Yet, Lorde, I thee desire, For that they doe to me, Let them not taste the hire of their iniquitie.
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his
state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; They also serve who only stand and wait.'
SAID I NOT SO.
Said I not so,
- that I would sin no more ? Witness, my God, I did ; Yet I am run again upon the score :
My faults cannot be hid.
What shall I do? - Make vows and break them
'T will be but labor lost; My good cannot prevail against mine ill :
The business will be crost.
SERVANT OF GOD, WELL DONE. [Verses occasioned by the sudden death of the Rev. Thomas Taylor, who had preached the previous evening.)
“SERVANT of God, well done ;
Rest from thy loved employ ;
Enter thy Master's joy."
He started up to hear,
He fell, – but felt no fear.
It found him in the field,
Beneath his red-cross shield :
Still warm with recent fight;
Through rock and steel to smite.
“ To meet thy God prepare !”
Then, strong in faith and prayer,
Burst its encumbering clay ;
A darkened ruin lay.
Labor and sorrow cease ;
His soul is found in peace.
Praise be thy new employ ;
0, say not so; thou canst not tell what strength
Thy God may give thee at the length. Renew thy vows, and if thou keep the last,
Thy God will pardon all that 's past.
Thy vows; and if thou break them, weep. Weep for thy broken vows, and vow again : Vows made with tears cannot be still in vain.
Then once again
Lord, say Amen,
ON JORDAN'S STORMY BANKS.
ON HIS BLINDNESS.
On Jordan's stormy banks I stand,
And cast a wishful eye
Where my possessions lie.
That rises to my sight ! Sweet fields arrayed in living green,
And rivers of delight.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more
bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide ; “Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?". I fondly ask : But Patience, to prevent
There generous fruits, that never fail,
On trees immortal grow ; There rock, and hill, and brook, and vale
With milk and honey flow.
FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand,
A land whose life is never dimmed by shade,
We may not know how sweet its balmy air, How bright and fair its flowers;
We may not hear the songs that echo there, Through those enchanted bowers.
The city's shining towers we may not see With our dim earthly vision,
For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key That opes the gates elysian.
But sometimes, when adown the western sky
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly,
And while they stand a moment half ajar,
O land unknown! O land of love divine!
[A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doing now. He replied, "Only waiting.")
ONLY waiting till the shadows
Of the day's last beam is flown;
From the heart, once full of day; Till the stars of heaven are breaking Through the twilight soft and gray.
Only waiting till the reapers
Have the last sheaf gathered home, For the summer time is faded,
And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers! gather quickly
The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.
Only waiting till the angels
Open wide the mystic gate, At whose feet I long have lingered, Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear the footsteps, And their voices far away;
If they call me I am waiting, Only waiting to obey.
Only waiting till the shadows
Of the day's last beam is flown.
COME, Brother, turn with me from pining thought
And all the inward ills that sin has wrought;
They 'll home again, full laden, to thy door; The streams of love flow back where they begin, For springs of outward joys lie deep within.
Even let them flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow-men. Shouldst thou be sad, And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear The music of those waters running near; And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream, And thine eye gladden with the playing beam That now upon the water dances, now Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.
Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell The power that wrought so beautiful a spell ? In thine own bosom, Brother? Then as thine Guard with a reverent fear this power divine.
And if, indeed, 't is not the outward state, But temper of the soul by which we rate Sadness or joy, even let thy bosom move With noble thoughts and wake thee into love, And let each feeling in thy breast be given An honest aim, which, sanctified by Heaven, And springing into act, new life imparts, Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.
Sin clouds the mind's clear vision,
Around the self-starved soul has spread a dearth.
and thy poor mind
be dull? Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep?
Thou "living dead man," let thy spirit leap Forth to the day, and let the fresh air blow Through thy soul's shut-up mansion. Wouldst thou know
Something of what is life, shake off this death;
With which all nature's quick, and learn to be
RICHARD HENRY DANA.
'T were vain the ocean depths to sound, Or pierce to either pole.
The world can never give
The bliss for which we sigh:
Beyond this vale of tears
There is a death whose pang
Outlasts the fleeting breath: O, what eternal horrors hang Around the second death!