LIBRARY OF THE THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY PRINCETON, N. J. Division ■//-•c/^ Section ?.*».../ f J ^y^^,c- saLaccao e>jiRRjiinG«DBY cna i>Vi £^. naujyoRK p.Jli'lPLecoi\s-Go. 1865. Cgra ^meticana ; OR, VERSES OF PRAISE AND FAITH, AMERICAN POEl-S. SELECTED AND ARRANGED REV. GEORGE T. RIDER, M.A NEfT rORK: D. Appleton & Company, 443 and 445 Broad-way. 1865. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, [n the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. PREFACE. A THOUGHTFUL survcy of our American Poetry not only suggests, at the outset, the very brief period covered by the history of our Htera- ture ; but, at the same time, it discloses and affirms both the individuality and nationality of our literature : — that, as American thinking and living have very little to do with the Old World, so, our literature, in its development, is not an off-shoot of any European stock, nor an exotic acclimated and wonted to our young life ; but is, itself, a logical and legitimate outgrowth of that life, owing little to the Old World and its liter- ature beyond its well-ripened and many-blooded language. Historically, our lineage touches the Mother Country at a time of intellectual degeneracy. iv Preface. The days of the great worthies had gone down in a twilight of conventionalism, and the spon- taneity and creative force of the old Art had given way to the feeble, debased spirit of the new. Apart from this unwholesome impulse reach- ing over our early colonial days, we note the perpetual crisis hanging over them, bringing unrest, fever, and weariness ; the different lan- guages and peoples awaiting their slow assimila- tion; the phrensy of fanaticism displacing a lov- ing faith ; and, finally, the widely-spread moral epidemic of skepticism, bred from our French alliance, and lodged in all the high places of the land. Given a problem involving so many per- plexed questions, such subtle relations and pos- sibilities, so many portents of disaster with so little of promise, we may well inquire whether history has elsewhere recorded a more brilliant and rapid solution. The Puritan element was intrinsically un- poetical. It was intensely polemic and practical. We need not call in question the soundness of Preface. v its moral purposes even if we are driven to confess the rudeness of its early culture. To the Puri- tan, the Beautiful was recognized in none of its spiritual relations : the Beautiful was rather a sorceress — an unwholesome mirage of experi- ence that called for the Exorcist. Its verses, therefore, were as rugged and forbidding as were the domestic and social polity whence they sprung. Later, when Patriotism, under the fervent fires of the Revolution, found a voice in song, her verses, for the most part, were feeble echoes of the English Heroic rhyme, and wanting, so far as Art-form is concerned, in every element of individuality. Still less remains to be said respecting the poetry of the Middle and Southern Colonies. Apart from a few faint echoes of the Chivalrous and Amatory poetry of England and the Con- tinent, scarcely a trace survives. Within the memory of many now living, therefore, may be fixed the virtual boundary of our earliest devout poetry. The religious poetry of England reaches over more than three hundred years : ours, over vi Preface. not much more than half a century. A few general considerations will discover and establish their true relations, and exhibit their main points of contrast. After a painstaking survey of the whole field, we are driven to the conclusion that the Christian Faith seems incidental rather than in- trinsic — an accidental mood, rather than an in- forming spirit quickening more or less vividly our American poetry. Few of our poets are dis- tinctively or altogether religious. There are volumes of poems written by Christian men and women without a disclosure of the Christian Faith: without either the light or heat of its presence. Again, in other directions. Faith takes the shape of sentiment or of ethical specu- lation hardly level with the aspirations of Cle- anthes or Pythagoras. Where the older school of English poetry is strongest, ours is weakest : where they are rich, we are poor. Historic Christianity, — the Super-natural fact of a present Christ building up a new and inner life, — seems, as yet, at work at the surface, Preface. vii at the circumference of our national conscious- ness, while the Gnostic spirit lies entombed at its heart. So that we have too often the Boreal chill, when we seek noon-day warmth ; a tender facility for symbolizing among blossoms and birds and brooks, with only a scholarly and aesthetic sense of the Gospels : so that we find, in the main, the Christianity of our general poetry shadowy and spectral, felt rather as a Philosophy than a Behef. The later period of our poetry, however, gives promise of something more earnest and evangelic. To make the point clearer — the multitude of the English poets carry with them an atmos- phere of genuine Faith. Spencer and Shake- speare are as unequivocally Christian, in Allegory and Drama, as are Milton and Wordsworth in Epic and Sonnet and Ode. In all their work, in larger or less degree, wrought the common Faith. There was no line of definition fixed be- tween the devout and the secular poet. While some few were given altogether to sacred verse. viii Preface. fewer were either altogether secular or unchris- tian. Indeed, if the parallel were pursued far enough in the opposite direction, we would sometimes find Faith and Secularity in almost profane intimacy; where, with us, we meet habitually an estrangement almost as shocking to the moral sense. A Christian poet need not always write Hymns or even devout verses ; yet the leaven of Faith should, in some degree, be felt in what- ever he writes. Again, our religious poetry lacks that deep Historical back-ground of Ecclesiastical archi- tecture and tradition — that rich Liturgical usage and feeling which lend so many grave and varied splendours of ripeness, mystery, colour, and tone, to the English school. It is wanting, too, in the congruity and unity that in a large degree flow from these broad influences. Neither do we behold that steady glow of style, born of high pohsh and consummate discipline, cherished in the University life. But we have caught from Nature more than she has hitherto vouchsafed since the days of Preface. ix the Psalmist. All her sweetest inspirations have come down like life-blood into our sacred verse. Besides, we have developed a subjectivity, calm, pure, and worshipful, wherein the Soul herself sings with a rapture above and beyond her Art. And not unwillingly have we felt the undertones of the old Church Life and Art breathing through new yet congenial forms with a young tender- ness and beauty. It is a comfortable thought, in this connection, that the right and wrong, the woe and welfare of humanity, have largely tem- pered our verses with evangelic force. It would not be hard to show, that, in living sympathy with the purest school of English, in the natural use of its best and earliest graces, in the management and mastery of finest rhythms, in delicacy and energy, in subjection of words to the subtlest uses of thought and spirit, much of our later verse closely approaches, if it does not abundantly realize, the highest standard of ex- cellence. This volume undertakes to gather in the best sacred verses from all available sources, entirely irrespective of Doctrinal or Ecclesiasti- X Preface. cal affinities, or individual preferences; — verses breathing something of a common Catholicity, while representing the Lyric spirit of our differ- ent Communions : and the compiler has taken especial pains to render it a discriminating and fairly proportioned representative of the whole subject. The limited number of pages, it is hoped, will sufficiently account for the absence of certain poems and authors entitled to con- sideration in any general, very comprehensive work. The compiler desires to express his obliga- tions for the use of many public and private Libraries; and especially to convey his grateful thanks to those literary gentlemen and authors, who have largely aided him in the progress of this work. G. T. R. Jnir^^ 0f Jfirst pms, Above, below, in Sky and sod Ah ! why should bitter tears be shed Alas ! how swift the moments fly All are architects of Fate All before us lies the way All things in nature are beautiful types Although the vine its fruit deny . Always with us, always with us At morning twilight when the dreaming soul IS* S8 207 143 156 275 162 70 60 Beneath the shadow of the Cross Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by Beyond where Cedron's waters flow . Blow on Thou Mighty Wind . , Bow, angels, from your glorious state Break ye the bread, and pour the wine . But Thee, O God ! but Thee 37 196 29 65 266 121 56 xu Index of First Lines. Calm on the listening ear of night Come, Kingdom of our God Creator Spirit ! come and bless us Day of vengeance without morrow Dear Friend, whose presence in the house Deep within a quiet valley . Father ! beneath Thy sheltering wings Fling out the Banner ! let it float Flow on sweet tears of joy and peace Forth flames the standard of our King FAGB 6 8S 74 229 119 278 176 84 123 38 Glad Easter morning came, and bright as glad Hark ! hark ! with harps of gold He came not with His heavenly crown He sendeth sun. He sendeth shower . Holy Spirit, Truth divine How calm and beautiful the morn How pleasing is Thy voice I cannot plainly see the way If thou dost truly seek to live I had a little daughter . I love Thy Kingdom, Lord . I mourn no more my vanished years In the beginning was the Word In the silent midnight watches . 41 IX 3 158 72 48 x6o 249 127 226 100 200 III 20 Index of First Lines. xiii FACn In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale . 255 I once made search, in hope to find . . . 257 Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! . . . . 1 09 Jerusalem, my Home ..... I06 Jesus a child His course begun . . . 1 30 Joy and gladness ! joy and gladness ! . . .8 Lift your glad voices in triumph on high . . 50 Light waits for thee in heaven : inspiring thought . 271 Like Noah's weary dove .... 80 Lord, lead the way the Saviour went . . . 145 Lord ! who, o'erlooking sin and sin . . . 292 Lord with glowing heart I'll praise Thee . .181 Love Divine, that stooped to share . . . 166 Lowly and solemn be . . . . .213 My Faith looks up to Thee . . . . 170 Nearer my God to Thee . , , .251 No better days can ever rise . . , , 136 No bird-song floated down the hill . , . 268 No human eyes Thy face may see . , , 78 Now gird your patient loins again . , ,1 O angel of the land of peace . . . 232 O blessed Jesus ! When I see Thee bending . • 17 O Bread to pilgrims given . . , , 126 Oft in the summer days, I've marked some wild . • '39 XIV Index of First Lines. Oh deem not they are blest alone Oh mournful, mournful time O Holy, holy, holy Lord O lifted hands of sovereign might O Love Divine ! lay on me burdens if Thou wilt O my Lord, I have but Thee O my Saviour ! art Thou there Once more thou comest, O delicious Spring Once the angel started back One ! Lord, whose daily mercies number . Onward speed thy conquering flight . O Sacred Head, now wounded . O Thou Great Friend to all the sons of men O Thou in whose eternal name O Thou that once on Horeb stood . Out and in the river is winding 216 246 76 191 ^37 183 24 40 5* 286 179 31 IS' 68 ^73 261 Pause not to dream of the future before us ** Perfect through suffering " may it be 148 214 Rocked in the cradle of the deep 177 Securely cabined in the ship below . See before us, in our journey She died — yet is not dead She stood up in the meekness of a heart . Shout the glad tidings, exultingly sing Still as our day our strength shall be 172 242 213 "5 'S 25 Index of First Lines. XV Still, still with Thee — when purple morning breaketh 1 34 Still will we trust, though earth seem dark and dreary , 174 Strangers no more we wildly roam ... 86 That mystic word of Thine, O Sovereign Lord The bells — the bells — the Christmas bells The Christian Banner ! Dread no loss . The enthusiast brooding in his cell apart The mourners came at break of day The perfect world by Adam trod There is an hour of peaceful rest . ' There is a Reaper whose name is Death /"There is no flock, however watched and tended The smile of Summer's golden brow . The Spirit in our hearts . The Lord of Hosts whose guiding hand Thou art to be a priest in holy things Thou must be born again Thou, who lookest with pitying eye Thousands completely fed Thy cruel Crown of Thorns . To prayer, to prayer ; — the morning breaks To Thine eternal arms, O God To think for aye j to breathe immortal breath Trembling before Thine awful throne a53 13 98 35 46 9a 264 220 193 280 236 90 93 "3 ^93 117 204 187 128 272 146 Watcher, who watch'st by the bed of pain Waning life and weary 22 54 xvi Index of First Lines. PAGB We ask not that our path be always bright . .185 What can I do the cause of God to aid . . 141 When adverse winds and waves arise , . . 1 68 Who deems that Holy Church has lost . . 1 02 Wild superstition named the flower . . '27 Wilt Thou not visit me . . . . 234 Within her downy cradle, there lay a little child . . 222 We ask not that our path be always bright . 185 Yes ! bear them to their rest . . . .283 Young soldier of the cross beware . . , 132 ^gra g,immmta. ADVENT, "Rejoice in the Lord alwayj and again I say, Rejoice. The Lord is at hand." OW gird your patient loins again, Your wasting torches trim ; ^The Chief of all the sons of men- Who will not welcome Him ? Rejoice ! the hour is near ; at length The Journeyer on His way Comes in the greatness of His strength To keep His holy day. With cheerful hymns and garlands sweet, Along His wintry road, Conduct Him to His green retreat. His sheltered, safe abode ; Lyra Americana. Fill all His courts with sacred songs, And from the temple wall Wave verdure o'er the joyful throngs That crowd his festival. And still more greenly in the mind Store up the hopes sublime Which then are born for all mankind. So blessed was the time ; And underneath these hallowed eaves A Saviour will be born In every heart that Him receives On His triumphal morn. William Croswell. Lyra Americana. THE TWO ADVENTS. 'HRr^Sinf^ ^ came not, with His heavenly iflll l^^ll I ^ crown, His sceptre clad with power, His coming, was in feebleness, the infant of an hour ; An humble manger cradled, first, the Virgin's holy birth. And lowing herds companioned there, the Lord of heaven and earth. He came not in His robe of wrath, with arm outstretched to slay ; But on the darkling paths of earth, to pour celestial day. To guide in peace the wandering feet ; the broken heart to bind ; And bear, upon the painful cross, the sins of human kind. 4 Lyra Americana. And Thou hast borne them, Saviour meek ! and therefore unto Thee, In humbleness, and gratitude, our hearts shall offered be ; And greenly, as the festal bough, that, on Thy altar lies. Our souls, our bodies, all be Thine, a living sacrifice ! Yet once again. Thy sign shall be, upon the heavens, displayed. And earth, and its inhabitants, be terribly afraid ; For, not in weakness, clad. Thou com'st our woes, our sins, to bear. But girt with all Thy Father's might, His ven- geance to declare. The terrors of that awful day. Oh ! who shall understand ? Or, who abide, when Thou in wrath, shalt lift Thy holy hand ? The earth shall quake, the sea shall roar, the sun in heaven grow pale. But Thou hast sworn, and wilt not change. Thy faithful will not fail. Then grant us. Saviour ! so to pass our time in trembling, here, Lyra Americana. 5 That when, upon the clouds of heaven, Thy glory shall appear, Uplifting high our joyful heads, in triumph we may rise. And enter, with Thine angel train, Thy temple, in the skies ! Bishop Doane. Lyra Americana THE BIRTH-SONG OF CHRIST. ALM on the listening ear of night Come Heaven's melodious strains, Where wild Judea stretches far O'er silver-mantled plains. Celestial choirs from courts above Shed sacred glories there ; And angels with their sparkling lyres Make music in the air. The answering hills of Palestine Send back the glad reply ; And greet from all their holy heights The Day Spring from on high. O'er the blue depths of Galilee There comes a holier calm ; And Sharon waves, in solemn praise, Her silent groves of palm. Lyra Americana. Glory to God ! " the sounding skies Loud with their anthems ring ; Peace to the earth, good will to men, From Heaven's eternal King." Light on thy hills, Jerusalem : The Saviour now is born. And bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains Break the first Christmas morn. E. H. Sears. 8 Lyra Americana. CHRISTMAS HYMN. OY and gladness ! joy and gladness ! Oh ! happy day ! Every thought of sin and sadness Chase, chase away. Heard ye not the angels telling, Christ the Lord of might excelling, On the earth with man is dwelling, Clad in our clay ? With the shepherd-throng around Him Haste we to bow ; By the angel's sign they found Him, We know Him now; New-born babe of houseless stranger, Cradled low in Bethlehem's manger, Saviour from our sin and danger, Jesus 'tis Thou ! Lyra Americana, God of Life, in mortal weakness, Hail, Virgin-born! Infinite in lowly meekness, Thou wilt not scorn, Though all Heaven is singing o'er Thee, And gray wisdom bows before Thee, When our youthful hearts adore Thee, This holy morn. Son of Mary, (blessed mother !) Thy love we claim j Son of God, our elder brother, (O gentle name !) To Thy Father's throne ascended. With Thine own His glory blended. Thou art, all Thy trials ended. Ever the same. Thou wert born to tears and sorrows, Pilgrim divine ; Watchful nights and weary morrows, Brother were Thine : By Thy fight with strong temptation. By Thy cup of tribulation, Qj[i ! thou God of our salvation. With mercy shine ! 1* lo Lyra Americana. In Thy holy footsteps treading Guide, lest we stray ; From Thy word of promise shedding Light on our way ; Never leave us nor forsake us, Like Thyself in mercy make us. And at last to glory take us, Jesus, we pray. George W. Bethune. Lyra Americana. il CHRISTMAS HYMN. ^ARK! hark! with harps of gold, What anthem do they sing ? — . The radiant clouds have backward rolled, And angels smite the string. " Glory to God ! "—bright wings Spread glistening and afar. And on the hallowed rapture rings From circling star to star. " Glory to God ! " repeat The glad earth and the sea ; And every wind and billow fleet. Bears on the jubilee. Where Hebrew bard hath sung. Or Hebrew bard hath trod. Each holy spot has found a tongue: " Let glory be to God." 12 Lyra Americana. Soft swells the music now Along that shining choir, And every seraph bends his brow And breathes above his lyre. What words of heavenly birth Thrill deep our hearts again, And fall like dew-drops to the earth ? " Peace and good will to men." Soft ! — yet the soul is bound With rapture like a chain : Earth, vocal, whispers them around, And heaven repeats the strain. Sound, harps, and hail the morn With every golden string ; — For unto us this day is born A Saviour and a King ! E. H. Chapin. Lyra Americana. 13 CHRISTMAS BELLS. HE bells — the bells — the Christmas bells How merrily they ring ! (sr^^ As if they felt the joy they tell To every human thing. The silvery tones, o'er vale and hill, Are swelling soft and clear, As, wave on wave, the tide of sound Fills the bright atmosphere. The bells — the merry Christmas bells, They're ringing in the morn ! They ring when in the eastern sky The golden light is born ; They ring, as sunshine tips the hills. And gilds the village spire — When, through the sky, the sovereign sun Rolls his full orb of fire. 14 Lyra Americana. The Christmas bells — the Christmas bells, How merrily they ring ! To weary hearts a pulse of joy, A kindlier life they bring. The poor man on his couch of straw. The rich on downy bed, Hail the glad sounds, as voices sweet Of angels overhead. The bells — the silvery Christmas bells, O'er many a mile they sound ! And household tones are answering them In thousand homes around. Voices of childhood, blithe and shrill. With youth's strong accents blend. And manhood's deep and earnest tones With woman's praise ascend. The bells — the solemn Christmas bells. They're calling us to prayer ; And hark, the voice of worshippers Floats on the morning air. Anthems of noblest praise there'll be. And glorious hymns to-day, Te Deums loud and Glorias : Come, to the Church, — away, John W. Brown. Lyra Americana. 15 A VIS ON. CHORUS. HOUT the glad tidings, exultingly sing ; Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is King! Sion, the marvellous story be telling. The Son of the Highest, how lowly His birth ! The brightest Archangel in glory excelling. He stoops to redeem thee, he reigns upon earth. Tell how He cometh ; from nation to nation. The heart-cheering news let the earth echo round ; How free to the faithful He offers salvation. How His people with joy everlasting is crowned. i6 Lyra Americana. Mortals, your homage be gratefully bringing, And sweet let the gladsome hosannas arise; Ye angels, the full hallelujah be singing; One chorus resound through the earth and the skies. MUHLENBURG. Lyra Americana. 17 CHRIST WASHING THE DISCIPLES' FEET, BLESSED Jesus ! when I see Thee bending, Girt as a servant, at Thy servants' feet. Love, lowliness, and might, in zeal all blending, To wash their dust away, and make them meet To share Thy feast. I know not to adore, Whether Thy humbleness or glory more. Conscious Thou art of that dread hour impend- When Thou must hang m anguish on the tree ; Yet, as from the beginning, to the ending Of Thy sad life, Thine own are dear to Thee,— i8 Lyra Americana. And Thou wilt prove to them, ere Thou dost part, The untold love which fills Thy faithful heart. The day, too, is at hand, when, far ascending. Thy human brow the crown of God shall wear. Ten thousand saints and radiant ones attending. To do Thy will and bow in homage there ; But Thou dost pledge, to guard Thy church from ill. Or bless with good. Thyself a servant still. Meek Jesus ! to my soul. Thy spirit lending. Teach me to live, like Thee, in lowly love ; With humblest service all Thy saints befriend- ing. Until I serve before Thy throne above — Yes ! serving e'er my foes, for Thou didst seek The feet of Judas in Thy service meek. Daily my pilgrim feet, as homeward wending My weary way, are sadly stained with sin ; Daily do Thou, Thy precious grace expend- ing, Wash me all clean without, and clean within, And make me fit to have a part with Thee And Thine, at last, in Heaven's festivity. Lyra Americana. »9 O blessed name of Servant! comprehending Man's highest honour in bis humblest name •, For Thou, God's Christ, that office recom- mending. The throne of mighty power didst truly claim ; He who would rise like Thee, like Thee must owe His glory only to his stooping low. George W, Bethune. 20 Lyra Americana. THE HEART'S SONG. "Behold I stand at the door." N the silent midnight watches, List thy bosom-door ; How it knocketh — knocketh — knocketh, Knocketh evermore ! Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating, 'Tis thy heart of sin ; 'Tis thy Saviour stands entreating. Rise and let me in. Death comes down with equal footstep To the hall and hut : Think you Death will stand a-knocking Where the door is shut ! Jesus waiteth — waiteth — waiteth ; But thy door is fast : Grieved, at length away He turneth. Death breaks in at last ! Lyra Americana. 21 Then 'tis thine to stand entreating Christ to let thee in ; At the door of Heaven beating, Wailing for thy sin. Nay, alas, thou foolish virgin. Hast thou then forgot, Jesus waited long to know thee, But — He knows thee not ! A. C. CoxE. 22 Lyra Americana. JESUS OF NJZJRETH PJSSETH BT. ATCHER, who watch'st by the bed of pain, While the stars sweep on in their midnight train ; Stifling the tear for thy loved one's sake ; Holding thy breath, lest his sleep should break ; In thy loneliest hours, there is a helper nigh, " Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." Stranger, afar from thy native land, Whom no one takes with a brother's hand, Table, and hearthstone are glowing free. Casements are sparkling, but not for thee. There is one who can tell of a home on high, " Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." Sad one, in secret, bending low, A dart in thy breast, that the world may not know. Lyra Americana. 23 Striving the favour of God to win, — Asking His pardon for days of sin ; Press on, press on, with thy earnest cry, "Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." Mourner, who sits in the church-yard lone, Scanning the lines on that marble stone, — Plucking the weeds from thy children's bed, Planting the myrtle, the rose instead — Look up, look up, with thy tearful eye, " Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." Fading one, with the hectic streak. With thy vein of fire, and thy burning cheek, Fear'st thou to tread the darkened vale Look unto One, who can never fail. He hath trod it Himself, He will hear thy sigh, "Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 24 Lyra Americana. THE PITTING CHRIST, MY Saviour ! art Thou there ? From within this wasted heart, Cries of shame and deep woe start: Empty chambers, empty halls. Everywhere some lone voice calls : There dwelt pleasure : there came sin : Wailing sounds now roam within. Saviour ! Oh ! if Thou art there. Be my heart of all else bare ! O my Saviour art Thou there ? Otherwheres I looked too long ; Till I read thy dear looks wrong ; Love on others I have thrown. And my Lord have all unknown. Now, by loss and sorrow wise ! Lord ! if Thou, indeed, be there, Give Thy prodigal his share ! Robert Lowell. Lyra Americana. 25 STILL JS OUR DAT. As thy day so shall thy strength be." 'TILL as our day our strength shall be, While still, good Lord, we trust in Thee ; While on Thy promise we depend. Our Saviour, brother, father, friend ; Our great High Priest, to whom were known Temptations, troubles, like our own. Who can be touched with mortal care. For Thou didst all our sorrows bear. Oh Lamb of God, the world on Thee, Hath laid her deep infirmity ; And in the cross that weighed Thee down, The bitter scourge, the thorny crown. Thou all her griefs, and all her fears, Didst bear through all Thine earthly years. The guiltless, for the guilty one. For man, the Everlasting Son. 2 26 Lyra Americana. Oh Saviour mine, how great the lOve, That brought Thee from Thy throne above ! That love, what seraph's lyre can tell, That wondrous love unspeakable ! So infinite, so all divine ! Unlike all other love but Thine, Like none but Jesu, none but Thee Thou bleeding Lamb of Calvary ! Give me. Thou glorious Lamb of God, Daily to walk, where Thou hast trod. And in adoring rapture grow. As in Thy lowly steps I go. Give me to ponder, more and more. Thy words and Thy example's lore, That walking here, my God with Thee, Still as my days my strength may be. A. C. CoxE. Lyra Americana. 27 THE PASSION FLOWER. ILD Superstition named the flower In memory of that awful hour, When HE whom heaven and earth adore The death of shame and sorrow bore. They called the purple circlet there The crown of thorns 'twas His to wear ; And every leaf seemed to their eye Memorial of His agony. 'Tis fancy all — yet do not scorn The thought of adoration born ! But let each flower that meets our sight Recall the Lord of Hfe and light. There's not one flower that decks the vale, And with its fragrance scents the gale. That does not bid our hearts arise To Him who dwells beyond the skies. 28 Lyra Americana. In valley lone, on mountain height, All in one common tale unite : All speak His love, who died, that we Might live through all eternity. Anna Eastburn. Lyra Americana. 29 BETOND WHERE CEDRON'S WATERS FLOW. E YOND where Cedron's waters flow, Behold the sufFerIng Saviour go To sad Gethsemane ; His countenance is all divine, Yet grief appears in every line. He bows beneath the sins of men ; He cries to God, and cries again, In sad Gethsemane ; He lifts His mournful eyes above — " My Father can this cup remove ? " With gentle resignation still. He yielded to His Father's will In sad Gethsemane ; " Behold Me here, Thine only Son ; And, Father, let Thy will be done." 30 Lyra Americana. The Father heard ; and angels, there, Sustained the Son of God in prayer. In sad Gethsemane ; He drank the dreadful cup of pain — Then rose to life and joy again. When storms of sorrow round us sweep, And scenes of anguish make us weep, To sad Gethsemane We'll look, and see the Saviour there. And humbly bow, like Him, in prayer. S. F. Smith. Lyra Americana. 31 O HA UPT VOLL BL UT UND WUNDEN. SACRED Head, now wounded, With grief and shame weighed down; Now scornfully surrounded With thorns. Thine only crown ; O sacred Head, what glory, What bliss till now was Thine ; Yet though despised and gory, I joy to call Thee mine. What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered, Was all for sinner's gain : Mine, mine was the transgression. But Thine the deadly pain. Lo, here I fall, my Saviour! 'Tis I deserve Thy place ; Look on me with Thy favour Vouchsafe on me Thy grace. 32 Lyra Americana. The joy can ne'er be spoken Above all joys beside, When, in Thy body broken, I thus with safety hide. Lord of my life desiring Thy glory now I see j Beside Thy cross expiring I'd breathe my soul to Thee. What language shall I borrow To thank Thee, dearest Friend, For this Thy dying sorrow. Thy pity without end? O make me Thine forever ; And should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never Outlive my love for Thee. Be near me when I'm dying, O, show Thy cross to me ; And to my succour flying. Come, Lord, and set me free ' When strength and comfort languish Amidst the final throe. Release me from my anguish By Thine own pain and woe. J. W. Alexander. Lyra Americana. 33 STRENGTH FROM THE CROSS. T is finished ! Man of Sorrows ! From Thy cross our frailty borrows Strength to bear and conquer thus. While extended there we view Thee, Mighty Sufferer ! draw us to Thee ; Sufferer victorious I Not in vain for us uplifted, Man of Sorrows, wonder-gifted ! May that sacred emblem be ; Lifted high amid the ages. Guide of heroes, saints, and sages. May it guide us still to Thee ! Still to Thee ! whose love unbounded, Sorrow's depths for us has sounded. Perfected by conflicts sore. 34 Lyra Americana. Honoured be Thy cross forever ; Star, that points our high endeavour Whither Thou hast gone before ! T. H. Hedge. Lyra Americana. 35 BEFORE THE WORT STJTUE OF CHRIST. HE enthusiast brooding in his cell apart O'er the sad image of the Cruci- fied,— The drooping head, closed lips, and pierced side, — A holy vision fills his raptured heart ; With heavenly power inspired, his unskilled arm Shapes the rude block to this transcendent form. Oh Son of God ! thus, ever thus, would I Dwell on the loveliness enshrined in Thee ; The lofty faith, the sweet humility ; The boundless love, the love that could not die. 36 Lyra Americana, the sculptor, with Thy glory And as warm, Gave to this chiseled ivory Thy form. So would my spirit, in Thy thought divine, Grow to a semblance, deep as this. Thine. Anne C. Lynch. of Lyra Americana. 37 A NEW COMMANDMENT. ENEATH the shadow of the Cross, As earthly hopes remove, His new commandment Jesus gives. His blessed word of Love. O bond of union strong and deep ! O bond of perfect peace ! Not e'en the lifted cross can harm, If we but hold to this. Then, Jesus, be Thy Spirit ours ! And swift our feet shall move To deeds of pure self-sacrifice. And the sweet tasks of love. S. Longfellow. 38 Lyra Americana. VEXILLA REGIS, ORTH flames the standard of our King, Bright gleams the mystic sign, When Hfe bore death of sufFer- ing» And death wrought life divine. The stabs of the accursed spear, Brought forth the healing flood, To cleanse sin's stains so dark and drear. With water and with blood. Fulfilled is each prophetic word. Each faith-inspiring strain, Telling the nations of that Lord, Who by the Cross should reign. Lyra Americana. 39 Hail, Cross of Christ ! man's only hope ; While now we gaze and pray, Dear Lord, th' exhaustless fountains ope, And wash our sins away. Bishop Williams. (JFrom the Breviary.^ ^^: 40 Lyra Americana. EASTER NCE more thou comest, O delicious Spring ! And as thy light and gentle foot- steps tread Among earth's glories, desolate and dead, Breathest revival over everything. Thy genial spirit is abroad to bring The cold and faded into life and bloom. Emblem of that which shall unlock the tomb, And take away the fell destroyer's sting. Therefore thou hast the warmer welcoming ; For Nature speaks not of herself alone. But in her resurrection tells our own. As from its grave comes forth the buried grain, So man's frail body, in corruption sown, In incorruption shall be raised again. William Croswell. Lyra Americana. 41 EJSTER-DJr, LAD Easter morning came, and bright as glad : For as the Feast, like sudden noon- tide, broke Above the Cross, thus, from the brooding night Of howling storm, flashed forth the golden day. The ringers smote wild music from the bells High in mid-air, from spire and turret pealing. Chiming and tolling, till the blue heavens, filled With legions of the Tone- World, seemed to sing And shout of rapture overfull. I sought The holy place, where unseen things of God Verge nearest to our darkened sphere — where men Hungry at heart and waiting for the Lord Taste evidence of Hope — substance of Faith, So sweet, that in the mystery they say 42 Lyra Americana. They find the Christ. As I drew near the church A throbbing undertone of organ sound Breathed on me from the pile, as if the whole — Nave, chancel, tower, and spire — had caught The resonance within, and would both tell And sing the story of the Changeless Faith. Within the door, the font again gave welcome, Garlanded and crowned with fairest flowers, Censing the air with Spring-time ecstacy Of odours : — odours — seraph sounds of praise — And radiance trailing from the pictured panes — (A thrilling sense of angels in the air !) Love wreathed a glory from this mystic Trine Of Beauty, for the holy place of God. In the far Chancel, with fair cloth arrayed. And glowing, golden vessels of the Feast, The Altar stood, with sacred Monogram Aflame. Camelia trees were there, and bloomed In white, as if the birds of peace had found A resting-place, and would soon rise and sing. In the great window kindling in the East Shone Mary's Son and Saviour — either side. By twos, the Great Evangels ; while the Dawn, With stately step, asperged the quarried walls. And surpliced priests, and the ingathering throng With splendors from the City of our God. Lyra Americana. 43 Confession made, and shriving words of Christ Opened my lips and eased my burdened heart For praise : and then we sang of life, and Him Who feeds His children with it — heard the Word, And made Te Deum till the walls did ring With answering echoes : then our hearts touched hands In fellowship as large as Earth and Heaven In the old, primal Creed ; then turned to Christ In prayer, as children asking drink and bread At home ; and I was heard while I besought. And yet my wounded heart did make lament, And bolder grew with grief, as Christ drew near. O bitter grief, beyond the healing balm ! O bitter grief, when through the weary years The heart bewails its dead ; and waiting, faints In fast, for feet that will not come again ! bitter grief, when little faces flit More dimly than before — dying again ! Until the heart cries out, O Lord, if Thou Canst not give back to me my darling dead, Let their dear faces fade no more away. In faith, in tears, athirst for life and love, 1 knelt before the Supper of the Lord. Ah me ! I knelt beside an open grave ! The while I kept the Rising of the Lord, 44 Lyra Americana. I kept the birth-day of my child in death ! hfe in death ! O death in life ! Come, Christ, Shine with Thy Presence on my sleeping child! Give me to see the vision of Thy Dead ! The first-born — bid her lead the other two ! Thou hast them — show this tender grace to- day ! Thou art the Life — Thy pulses throb in mine : This only crumb from Thy full table, Lord ! 1 felt the stir of the invisible Ones Who serve within the Mystery. Breathings Of love unutterable coursed through my soul. And Mary's Son, above me, seemed to say : 'Who walk by sight, walk not with me this day; Who feed on sense, must perish by the way. 'Thy babes are mine and thine — lament no more ! Their shining footsteps lead thee to my door. Son ! look to me, and give Thy grieving o'er. ' They keep a better Easter, here, with me — If they have me, no other need can be : Only look up, and thou, at last, shalt see ! ' Lyra Americana. 45 O Living Bread ! I feed on Thee alone ! O quickening Wine, I drink to thirst no more ! The Word hath spoken and my heart is still ! The healing touch hath stayed my wasting wound ! I, who was blind, do now begin to see ! Then broke the organ into jubilee ! And we who die, and they who cannot die Again, sang: Glory be to God on High. The kindling colours blazoned — " Easter-Day ; " And breathed the flowers — "this is Easter- Day;" And choral echoes whispered far away — " 'Tis Easter — Easter-day ! 'tis Easter-Day ! " George T. Rider, 46 Lyra Americana. THE MOURNERS CAME AT BREAK OF DAT, HE mourners came, at break of day, Unto the garden sepulchre. With saddened hearts to weep and pray For Him, the loved one, buried there. What radiant light dispels the gloom ? An angel sits beside the tomb. The earth doth mourn her treasures lost, All sepulchre 'd beneath the snow. When wint'ry winds and chilling frost Have laid her summer glories low ; The spring returns, the flow'rets bloom — An angel sits beside the tomb. Then mourn we not, beloved dead. E'en while we come to weep and pray ; Lyra Americana. 47 The happy spirit hath but fled To brighter realms of heavenly day ; Immortal hope dispels the gloom — An angel sits beside the tomb. S. F. Adams. 48 Lyra Americana. THE LORD IS RISEN. "^OW calm and beautiful the morn That gilds the sacred tomb, Where once the Crucified was borne, And veiled in midnight gloom ! Oh ! weep no more the Saviour slain ; The Lord is risen — He lives again. Ye mourning saints ! dry every tear For your departed Lord ; "Behold the place — He is not there," The tomb is all unbarred : The gates of death were closed in vain: The Lord is risen — He lives again. Now cheerful to the house of prayer Your early footsteps bend. The Saviour will Himself be there, Your advocate and friend : Lyra Americana. 49 Once by the law your hopes were slain, But now in Christ ye live again. How tranquil now the rising day ! 'Tis Jesus still appears, A risen Lord to chase away Your unbelieving fears : Oh ! weep no more your comforts slain, The Lord is risen — He lives again. And when the shades of evening fall, When life's last hour draws nigh. If Jesus shine upon the soul. How blissful then to die : Since He has risen who once was slain. Ye die in Christ to live again. T. Hastings. 50 Lyra Americana. EVEN SO IN CHRIST SHALL ALL BE MADE ALIVE. IFT your glad voices in triumph on high, For Jesus hath risen, and man can- not die. Vain were the terrors that gathered around Him, And short the dominion of death and the grave ; He burst from the fetters of darkness that bound Him, Resplendent in glory to Hve and to save. Loud was the chorus of angels on high — "The Saviour hath risen, and man shall not die." Glory to God, in full anthems of joy : The being He gave us, death cannot destroy ; Sad were the life we must part with to-morrow. If tears were our birthright, and death were our end ; Lyra Americana. 51 But Jesus hath cheered the dark valley of sor- row, And bade us, immortal, to heaven ascend. Lift, then, your voices in triumph on high, Jesus hath risen, and man shall not die. H. Ware, Jr. 52 Lyra Americana. THE TRUE PASSOVER. NCE the angel started back, When he saw the blood-stained door, Pausing on his vengeful track. And the dwelling passing o'er. Once the sea from Israel fled. Ere it rolled o'er Egypt's dead. Now our Passover Is come Dimly shadowed in the past. And the very Paschal Lamb, Christ, the Lord, is slain at last. Then with hearts and hands made meet, Our unleavened bread we'll eat. Blessed Victim sent from Heaven, Whom all angel hosts obey. Lyra Americana. S3 To whose will all earth is given, At whose word hell shrinks away, Thou has conquered death's dread strife. Thou hast brought us light and life. Bishop Williams. [From the Breviary.^ i(i?yi^ »fg w M ^H n\^|^0>t ^Sj Cc_ QSr ) SIC rfTT^ 54 Lyra Americana. THE NIGHT COMETH WHEN NO MAN CAN WORK. ANING life and weary, Fainting heart and limb, Darkening road and dreary. Flashing eye grown dim ; All betokening nightfall near. Day is done, and rest is dear. Slowly stealing shadows Westward lengthening still, O'er the dark brown meadows. O'er the sunlit hill. Gleams of golden glory. From the opening sky. Gild those temples hoary — Kiss that closing eye ; Now drops the curtain on all wrong — Throes of sorrow — ^grief and song. Lyra Americana. 55 But saw ye not the dying, Ere life passed away, Faintly smile while eyeing Yonder setting day ; And, his pale hand signing Man's redemption sign — Cried, with forehead shining : Father, I am thine ! And so to rest he quietly hath pass'd, And sleeps in Christ the Comforter at last. William Wilson. 56 Lyra Americana. THE REFUGEE. "Whom have I in Heaven but thee?" Psalm 13-25. UT Thee, O God! but Thee, To whom shall I address My wail of deep distress ? Thou only who canst see My spirit's brokenness, Thou only, who alone canst heal The pangs I bear, the ills I feel. To Thee, Oh God [ to Thee, With lowly heart I bend ; Lord, to my prayer attend, And haste to succour me, Thou never failing Friend ! For seas of trouble o'er me roll. And whelm with tears my sinking soul. From Thee, O God ! from Thee, By phantom passions led. Lyra Americana. 57 Like him of old* I fled ! Saying this earth shall be, To me a heaven instead. But then didst Thou in mercy thrust My earthly idols to the dust. On Thee, Oh God ! on Thee With humble hope I'll lean, Thou who hast ever been A hiding place to me. In many a troubled scene ; Whose heart with love and mercy fraught Back to the fold Thy wand'rer brought. William Wilson. * Jonah. 3* 58 Lyra Americana. WHT SEEK TE THE LIVING AMONG THE DEAD, H ! why should bitter tears be shed In sorrow o'er the mounded sod. When verily there are no dead Of all the children of our God ? They who are lost to outward sense Have but flung off their robes of clay, And clothed in heavenly radiance. Attend us on our lowly way. And oft their spirits breathe in ours The hope and strength and love of theirs. Which bloom as bloom the early flowers In breath of summer's viewless airs. And silent aspirations start, In promptings of their purer thought, Lyra Americana. 59 Which gently lead the troubled heart To joys not even Hope had wrought. While sorrow's tears our eyes have wet, Shed o'er the consecrated dust. Too much our darkened souls forget The lessons of enduring Trust. Let living Faith serenely pour Her sunlight on our pathway dim. And Death can have no terrors more ; But holy joys shall walk with him. G. S. Burleigh. 6o Lyra Americana. EASTER ON MOUNT OLIVET. morning twilight, when the dreaming soul Gropes in the grey of dim and weird-like thought, A sweet voice whispered : — ' Lo, the Christ has risen. And walks among the olives.' In glad haste, Still through still city, and adown the street Of Sorrows crept I to the gate, whose stones Yet weep with Stephen's blood. The bearded guard Upturned a half-shut eye ; near broken tomb, Shivering a Jewish leper slept. All slept j Only the wind moaned thro' the hollow gorge, As of a prophet wailing in his grave, And a leaf quivered on the gnarled bough. Ghostly beside dry Kedron. Up I clomb. And with me clomb the mist, white-winged, swift. Lyra Americana. 6l Till, gazing from the brow, lo ! a wild sea It surged above the valley and the v^all Of the lost city ; tomb, and topmost tree Sank sudden ; hoary mosque and battlement ; And as the sailor in the stormy trough Sees earth nor heaven, but crested ocean peaks Swooping upon him, so stood I alone With the drear hilltop and the swallowing night. When hark! this music sang: "A little while, And ye shall see me ; " then the shapeless cloud Seemed struggling to a smile, a deep, soft eye, A brow thorn-crowned, and from each thorny edge Trickled a drop of light. " I am," it said, " One who left Heaven, when the Christ arose, Wearing, so love I Him, the face He wore. And in His holy footprints aye I walk. Till that He come again. Behold thou now His keen-eyed messenger ! " Thro' the cloud, A sword of fire, the flashing sunbeam clove : It smote the hilltop, the grey olives burned As the red bush of Moses, down the slopes Joyous it leaped, then calmly stayed and bathed In wondrous flood the lone Gethsemane. Before me, as the landskip of a dream. Rose up the gleaming mount, and thro' the gorge Out to the hollow waste the surly mist 62 Lyra Americana. Fled, as a baffled monster of the sun, Back to his caves. When now, " Behold again," Heard I the bodiless voice. And lo ! no more The grey, old walls, the storm-scathed, barren hills, But in that mystic light a City of God, Unspeakable, e'en by his golden lips. Who saw the Bride of Christ, and in his trance Fell words as flashes from the crystal gates. And sunlit ripples on the river of life. But mine how dumb ! how idly do I grope Midst images of joy ! a melody Dim whispering to me still, as if I stood Upon a lonely shore, and heard afar Snatches of song high billowing on the breeze, Over a starlit sea : — a towering pile. That crumbles at the touch of after thought, As in the tropic sunset sudden rise Fair, golden palaces 'mid groves of palm, Gleaming and gone ! so saw I pinnacles Of a new Temple, where yon Paynim mosque Spurns Sion, and a dome dashing its waves Of light o'er walls of light. About it walked Forms wonderful : one with a craggy brow Like Sinai, and the veil half Hfted up ; O kingly harper, chaunting as he went ; An eye from a dark mantle, gazing keen Lyra Americana. 63 Into the cloud-rift as a written scroll 5 Then came a sad, sweet woman, her white hairs A crown of woven rays ; she leaned on one Whose childlike smile said, "Mother, behold thy son." And still they rose, fresh lights, innumerous. In lustrous groups ; such the glad watcher sees, Nearing the Southern cross, in clusters rich, As love had blent their torches, and beyond Three vapoury piles, that are the golden dust Of starry worlds. Then in my waking dream Sang I my matin song. Dawn, Easter sun. Dawn in thy strength ! Hail to thee, holy hill, Beloved above all hills that cHmb to heaven. The loftier peaks look snow-clad on the vale, And fairer slopes smile joyous, holier thou With these green memories ! ye aged trees. Binding your gnarled, grey arms in silent prayer Over the garden, ye shall wear the bloom Of fadeless spring ! O city of the Christ ! Gazing from lonely heights upon the tomb Of a dead Past, rise with thy living stones j Thy Temple the wide human heart, thy song The tide of faith, of hope fresh pouring on 64 Lyra Americana. Thro' newborn years of time; thy endless life As His, the Man Divine, whose feet yet walk Among the olives, and His eyes yet look In love and sorrow from the mount of God. E. A. Washburn. Lyra Americana. 65 BLOW ON, THOU MIGHTY WIND, LOW on, Thou mighty Wind, The cloven tongues descending. Fanned by Thy dewy Breath, shall blaze and burn, A sacred flame unending. Soon shall the Fire behold Vile earth transformed to fine wrought gold ; And gloom of shadowy night That Flame shall kindle into light : Therefore, Thou mighty Wind, blow on. Blow on, Thou mighty Wind, And waft to realms unbounded The notes of Faith and Hope and tender Love The Gospel trump hath sounded. Those sweetly piercing tones. That charm all wars and tears and groans. Through earth and sea and sky 66 Lyra Americana. Upon Thy rushing wings shall fly : Therefore, Thou mighty Wind, blow on. Blow on, Thou mighty Wind ; For tempest-tossed and lonely, The Church upon the rolling billows rides, And trusts in Thy Breath only. She spreads her swelling sails For Thee to fill with favoring gales. Till, through the stormy sea. Thou bring her home where she would be ; Therefore, Thou mighty Wind, blow on. Blow on, Thou mighty Wind, On hearts contrite and broken. And bring in quickening power the gracious words That Jesu's lips have spoken. Lo ! then, from death and sleep. The listening souls to life shall leap ; Then love shall reign below. And Joy the whole wide world overflow : Therefore, Thou mighty Wind, blow on. To God, the Father, Son, By all in earth and heaven. And to the Holy Spirit, Three in One, Eternal praise be given : Lyra Americana. 67 As once triumphant rang When morning stars together sang 5 Is now, as aye before ; And shall be so for evermore, World without end. Amen. Amen. John Henry Hopkins, Jr. 68 Lyra Americana. O THOU IN WHOSE ETERNAL NAME, THOU in whose eternal name Went forth the Apostles' ardent host, Baptize us with the hallowed flame That fell from Heaven at Pentecost. The fearless faith that cries " Repent ! " Thy servants' earnest message fill ; By Thee the living word was sent, Thy presence make it living still. And while Thy people bend and pray Towards Thy benignant throne of light, Give answer in the dawning day Of Freedom, Mercy, Truth, and Right. Immortal Truth ! it lives in Thee ; Our hope shall lean on Thee alone ! Lyra Americana. 69 Thy Christ be all our liberty, And all our strength and will Thy own ! Father, whose heavenly kingdom lies In every meek believing breast. Reveal before Thy children's eyes That kingdom's coming, and its rest ! Give Thy Son's herald, from above. The anointing of Thy Spirit's breath ; The faith that worked in Christ by love. The trust that triumphed in His death. F. D. Huntington. yo Lyra Americana. / AM WITH rOU ALWAT. LWAYS with us, always with us — Words of cheer and words of love ; Thus the risen Saviour whispers From His dwelling-place above. With us when we toil in sadness, Sowing much and reaping none. Telling us that in the future Golden harvests shall be won ; With us when the storm is sweeping 0*er our pathway dark and drear ; Waking hope within our bosoms. Stilling every anxious fear ; — Lyra Americana. 71 With us in the lonely valley, When we cross the chilling stream, Lighting up the steps to glory With Salvation's radiant beam. Nevin. 72 Lyra Americana. HOLT SPIRIT, TRUTH DIVINE, OLY Spirit, Truth divine! Dawn upon this soul of mine ; Word of God, and Inward Light ! Wake my spirit, clear my sight. Holy Spirit, Love divine ! . Glow within this heart of mine ; Kindle every high desire ; Perish self in Thy pure fire ! Holy Spirit, Power divine ! Fill and nerve this will of mine ; By the way I strongly live. Bravely bear and nobly strive. Holy Spirit, Right divine ! King within my conscience reign j Be my Lord, and I shall be Firmly bound, forever free. Lyra Americana. 73 Holy Spirit, Peace divine! Still this restless heart of mine ; Speak to calm this tossing sea, Stayed in Thy tranquillity. Holy Spirit, Joy divine ! Gladden Thou this heart of mine ; In the desert ways I sing " Spring, O Well ! forever spring." S. Longfellow. 74 Lyra Americana. HYMN FOR WHITSUNDJT, REATOR Spirit! come and bless us ; Let Thy love and fear possess us ; With Thy graces meek and lowly Purify our spirits wholly. Paraclete, the name Thou bearest, Gift of God the choicest, dearest. Love, and fire, and fountain living. Spiritual unction giving. Shower Thy benedictions seven From Thy majesty in heaven. Be the Saviour's word unbroken. Let Thy many tongues be spoken ; In our sense Thy light be glowing. Through our souls Thy love be flowing ; Cause the carnal heart to perish. But the strength of virtue cherish, Lyra Americana. 75 Till each enemy repelling, And Thy peace around us dwelling, We beneath Thy guidance glorious, Stand o'er every ill victorious. William Croswell, 76 Lyra Americana. TER SJNCTUS. HOLY, holy, holy Lord, Bright in Thy deeds and in Thy Name ; Forever be Thy Name adored, Thy glories let the world proclaim. O Jesus, Lamb once crucified To take our load of sins away. Thine be the hymn that rolls its tide, Along the realms of upper day. O Holy Spirit from above. In streams of light and glory given. Thou source of ecstacy and love. Thy praises ring through earth and heaven. Lyra Americana. 77 O God Triune, to Thee we owe Our every thought, our every song ; And ever may Thy praises flow From saint and seraph's burning tongue. J. W. Eastburn. yS Lyra Americana. THE MTSTERT OF GOD. O human eyes Thy face may see ; No human thought Thy form may know ; But all creation dwells in Thee, And Thy great Hfe through all doth flow ! And yet, O strange and wondrous thought ! Thou art a God who hearest prayer, And every heart with sorrow fraught To seek Thy present aid may dare. And though most weak our efforts seem Into one creed these thoughts to bind. And vain the intellectual dream. To see and know the Eternal Mind ; Yet Thou wilt turn them not aside. Who cannot solve Thy life divine, Lyra Americana. 79 But would give up all reason's pride To know their hearts approved by Thine. So, though we faint on life's dark hill. And Thought grow weak, and Knowledge flee. Yet Faith shall teach us courage still. And Love shall guide us on to Thee. T. W. HiGGINSON. go Lyra Americana. THE CHURCH OF GOD, IKE Noah's weary dove, That soared the earth around, But not a resting-place above The cheerless waters found ; O cease my wandering soul. On restless wing to roam ; All the wide world to either pole. Has not for thee a home. Behold the ark of God, Behold the open door ; Hasten to gain that dear abode. And rove, my soul, no more. There, safe thou shalt abide. There, sweet shall be thy rest. And every longing satisfied. With full salvation blest. Lyra Americana. 8i And, when the waves of ire Again the earth shall fill, The Ark shall ride the sea of fire ; Then rest on Sion's hill. MUHLENBURG. 82 , Lyra Americana. THE KINGDOM OF CHRIST, HEN God descends with men to dwell, And all creation wakes anew. What tongue can half the wonders tell ? What eye the dazzling glory view ? Zion, the desolate, again Shall see her lands with roses bloom ; And Carmel's mount, and Sharon's plain. Shall yield their spices and perfume. Celestial streams shall gently flow ; The wilderness shall joyful be ; Lilies on parched ground shall grow ; And gladness spring on every tree. The weak be strong, the fearful bold. The deaf shall hear, the dumb shall sing. Lyra Americana. 83 The lame shall walk, the blind behold, And joy through all the earth shall ring. Monarchs and slaves shall meet in love ; Old pride shall die, and meekness reign, When God descends from worlds above. To dwell with men on earth again. H. Ballou. 84 Lyra Americana. THE BANNER OF THE CROSS. LING out the Banner ! let it float Sky-ward and sea-ward, high and wide; The sun, that lights its shining folds, The Cross, on which the Saviour died. Fhng out the Banner ! Angels bend. In anxious silence, o'er the sign ; And vainly seek to comprehend The wonder of the love divine. Fling out the Banner ! Heathen lands Shall see, from far, the glorious sight. And nations, crowding to be born. Baptize their spirits in its light. Fling out the Banner ! Sin-sick souls. That sink and perish in the strife, Shall touch in faith its radiant hem. And spring immortal into life. Lyra Americana. 85 Fling out the Banner ! Let it float Sky-ward, sea-ward, high and wide ; Our glory, only in the Cross ; Our only hope the Crucified. Fling out the Banner ! Wide and high, Sea-ward and sky-ward, let it shine : Nor skill, nor might, nor merit, ours ; We conquer only in that sign. Bishop Doane. #, mim 86 Lyra Americana. HTMN FOR THE FESTIVAL OF ST THOMAS THE APOSTLE, {From the Epistle for the Day.) TRANGERS no more we wildly rove Without a blessing from above, On passions stormy sea j But with the followers of the Lamb We live to praise His holy name, To all eternity. Upon a sure foundation laid, Jesus, Himself the corner's head. The building grows on high ; No storms can shake, no billows sweep Its firm foundations to the deep, 'Tis guarded by the sky. O may we each through faith prepare In that resplendent pile to share. Lyra Americana. 87 Each be a living stone ; That God may there forever dwell, And bliss and light ineffable Eternal ages crown ! J. W. Eastburn. 88 Lyra Americana. THE KINGDOM OF OUR GOD. OME, Kingdom of our God ; Sweet reign of light and love, Shed peace, and hope, and joy abroad, And wisdom from above. Over our spirits first Extend thy healing reign ; There raise and quench the sacred thirst That never pains again. Come, Kingdom of our God ! And make the broad earth thine. Stretch o'er her lands and isles the rod That flowers with grace divine. Soon may all tribes be blest With fruit from life's glad tree ; And in its shade hke brothers rest Sons of one family. Lyra Americana. 89 Come, Kingdom of our God ! And raise thy glorious throne In worlds by the undying trod, Where God shall bless His own. Johns. 1! rii I ! ^- i ' "^r lliillii-l'ii'fii r. MM go Lyra Americana. THE SOLDIERS OF THE CROSS. HOU, Lord of Hosts, whose guiding hand Hast brought us here before Thy face ; Our spirits wait for Thy command, Our silent hearts implore Thy peace ! Those spirits lay their noblest powers. As offerings, on Thy holy shrine j Thine was the strength that nourished ours ; The soldiers of the cross are Thine. While watching on our arms, at night. We saw Thine angels round us move ; We heard Thy call, we felt Thy light. And followed trusting to Thy love. And now with hymn and prayer we stand. To give our strength to Thee, great God ! Lyra Americana. 91 We would redeem Thy holy land, That land which Sin so long has trod. Send us where'er Thou wilt, O Lord ! Through rugged toil and wearying flight ; Thy conquering love shall be our sword, And faith in Thee our truest might. Send down Thy constant aid, we pray ; Be Thy pure angels with us still ; Thy truth, be that our firmest stay ; Our only rest, to do Thy will. N. L. Frothingham. 92 Lyra Americana. CHURCH BUILDING. HE perfect world by Adam trod, Was the first temple built by God His fiat laid the corner-stone, And heaved its pillars, one by one. He hung its starry roof on high — The broad illimitable sky ; He spread its pavement, green and bright. And curtained it with morning light. The mountains in their places stood. The sea, the sky, — and " all was good ; " And when its first pure praises rang. The " morning stars together sang." Lord ! 'tis not ours to make the sea And earth and sky a house for Thee ; But in Thy sight our offering stands — A humbler temple, " made with hands." N. P. Willis. Lyra Americana. 93 THE PRIEST THAT MUST BE, HOU art to be a priest in holy things ; A minister of thy great Maker, God! Oh ! all of earth that to thy earth-heart clings, — And all the bribe-gifts that the fair world brings, — All that the Tempter's voice most sweetly sings. Calling thy spirit to come forth, abroad. Oh, not for thee, — they must not be for thee ! What they have been, no more must ever be. In Christ's eternal priesthood thou wilt share, To reconcile to God His sinful sons : Ambassadors from God, thou, too, shalt wear His very person, and thy tongue shall dare In Christ's stead, to beseech the erring ones. 94 Lyra Americana. Who is enough for this far-reaching work ? At whose poor heart doth not the vile worm lurk ? This priceless trust in earthen case is set : Who holds it falls, if he do once forget In God's gift, only, might and worth are met. When, in Christ's name and stead, thou shalt beseech. His loving Gospel to the others preach. And pledges of God's grace share forth to each ; — When other hearts lie open to thine own. Eyes trusting look to thee, as on a throne ; Nothing but Christ's rich blood can for thyself atone. Bethink thee, well, how one may speak true blame Of deadly sin, and load it thick with shame ; One may bear charge for God and take Christ's name. And yet, at Reckoning, may be cast off, A woe to loving ones, to friends a scoff. But oh, what deeper loss shall his be, then. Who, of his priesthood, made a lure to men ! Who drew in weaker souls, and led them wrong : Lyra Americana. 95* His Gospel but a witching, wicked song ! Where, out of God's great love, shall that bad wretch belong ! Lift up thy faith beyond the inner sky Where, in deep peace, God ever sits on high : Amid all sounds which meet there in His praise, — Which worlds and hosts, cherubs and seraphs raise To Him, far off and near, Ancient of Days, One, only God, thrice holy Three in One, Beyond time's death, as ere time was begun. There He that calls thee in dread stillness sits. While, flashing everywhere, high, glorious music flits. To Him the rain-drop plashing on the sea. The winged seed wafted from the forest-tree, The insect's gaspings, and the sun's swift ray Kindling up countless atoms in its way. Each after each, to bring to earth the day All, all are heard, — all things are heard, — yet He Hears thy thoughts moving in the midst of thee. Let not the busy world, with its loud din. 96 Lyra Americana. Let not the sweet, enticing calls of sin, Let nothing draw thine ear from God's still voice within ! He sees thee all ; the flashing of an eye ; The changing cheek ; the bosom swelling high; Yea the first impulse of the peaceful blood. Ere, with fell passion's surge, it rushes to its flood. He sees the little pictures spread within Thy mind's deep chambers, where no eye can win : As if no other thing on earth's smooth face. But thou, alone. In clearest light had place. As if He looked on thee and thee alone. Thus open standest thou : thus seen, thus known. Look not on wrong, nor let the Tempter dare To find a back-way up into thy heart. And open all his cursed, tempting ware To bargain with thee for thy better part. Thou hast no secrets that are hid from God ; Thine inmost places by His feet are trod : Hast thou sin there ? it lies before His sight : Die, if thou must, but cast it from thee, quite ! Lyra Americana. 97 If thou hast ever taken gifts of Hell And then repented, and hast thrown them out, And swept all clean (while bloody tear-drops fell) And scattered holy balms, the place about ; Search yet again ; thou knowest but too well If thine own hand have somewhere laid away Some sin that penitence might overlook, To come to light, some time, and draw astray Thy weaker thoughts, or, at the Dreadful Day, To stand revealed, and damn thee from God's Book. The spirit, — like the wind that wears no form In wooing summer-breath, or ruthless storm, — Breaks up the dark heart's strongly-frozen deep, Or lays the whirl of earthly lusts to sleep. He, only, is thy strength and warmth and light : Trust well thy faith in Him, where faith is sight. Robert Lowell. 4 M^^^=^ ^ g8 Lyra Americana. THE CHRISTIAN BANNER. HE Christian Banner! Dread no loss Where that broad ensign floats unrolled, But let the fair and sacred Cross Blaze out from every radiant fold : — Stern foes arise, a countless throng. Loud as the storms of Kara's sea, But though the strife be fierce and long, That Cross shall wave in victory. Sound the shrill trumpet, sound, and call The people of The Mighty King, And bid them keep that standard all In martial thousands gathering ; — Let them come forth from every clime. That lies beneath the circling sun. Various, as flowers in that sweet clime When flowers are, — in heart but one. Lyra Americana. 99 Soldiers of Heaven ! take sword and shield, Look up to Him who rules on high, And forward to the glorious field, Where noble martyrs bleed and die ; — Press onward, scorning flight or fear. As deep waves burst on Norway's coast. And let the startled nations hear The war-shout of the Christian host. Lift up the Banner : — rest no more. Nor let this righteous warfare cease. Till man's last tribe shall bow before The Lord of Lords — the Prince of Peace : — Go ! bear it forth, ye strong and brave ; Let not those bright folds once be furled. Till that high sun shall see them wave Above a blest but conquered world. James Gilborne Lyons. 100 Lyra Americana. / LOVE THT KINGDOM, LORD, LOVE Thy kingdom, Lord, The house of Thine abode. The Church our blest Redeemer saved With His own precious blood. I love Thy church, O God ! Her walls before Thee stand. Dear as the apple of Thine eye. And graven on Thy hand. For her my tears shall fall. For her my prayers ascend ; To her my cares and toils be given, Till toils and cares shall end. Beyond my highest joy I prize her heavenly ways. Her sweet communion, solemn vows, Her hymns of love and praise. Lyra Americana. loi Jesus, Thou Friend divine, Our Saviour, and our King, Thy hand from every snare and foe, Shall great deliverance bring. Sure as Thy truth shall last, To Zion shall be given The brightest glories earth can yield, And brighter bliss of heaven. DWIGHT. 102 Lyra Americana. CHRIST'S LEGACr, HO deems that Holy Church has lost The priceless gift the Saviour gave ? Or,as an idle bauble, tost Beneath the curst world's hungry wave. Her keys that, all this wide world o'er, Oped to man's want God's spirit-store ? That now the Kingdom is but earth alone Where man's poor sight and wisdom seek their own ? Who deems that hidden Paradise, — Its sweet cool shades, its living streams, Its lustrous air, from seraph's eyes Radiant with interwoven beams, And the eternal Light divine Filling up all with changeless shine, — Lyra Americana. 103 That these, and converse with the dwellers there, To men in spirit are not free as air ? That His blest Kingdom — which, Christ said, Should ever stand while earth doth stand. And, when the last flames, fierce and red, Should meet and burn up sea and land. Transfigured through these fires should glow Thenceforth no earthiness to know, — That this hath not one, only, changeless frame. One as the Lord: on earth, in heaven, the same ? Or that the Body of the Lord, The Godhead dwelHng in the flesh, — Is not, to us, as when that Word In human nature dwelt afresh ? Or that God's fulness, now, as then. Doth not inhabit in us men, A fulness that in each of us hath place Of grace according to our growth in grace ? Oh ! is not God the selfsame now As when he put on human frame ? His Body is the Church : and how Is this. His Body, not the same ? 104 -^y^^ Americana. It is the same where'er Faith is : Christ manifests himself in His : Where Faith is not, to them is Christ no more Indwelhng, in the Spirit, as of yore. This glorious Kingdom — rich within. And glowing with all spirit-powers — There is no cause, but each man's sin, If all its treasures be not ours : Our priests are gifted with the Word. And every member of the Lord Hath his own measure of the Holy Ghost : In the most humble and obedient, most. And in the Spirit, oh, what height The feet of faithful men do mount ! There glossy slopes flow all with light. And vales are rich with stream and fount. The pure see God on every side ; Them spirits gently serve and guide ; While earth, to them, is sorrow, shame, and ill. The Church is heaven on earth, about them still. Sweet mysteries to them that love. Do lead to that eye hath not seen j Lyra Americana. 105 An open sky is spread above Wherein no cloud hath ever been. The Word wells full in every heart ; Deep calleth unto deep, apart ; And Love, God's being, maketh them all one In Him, the Father, vv^ho are in the Son. Robert Lowell. ^■^^'^ 5* io6 Lyra Americana. JERUSALEM, MT HOME ERUSALEM, my Home, I see thy walls arise ; Their jasper clear and sardine stone Flash radiance through the skies. In clouds of heaven-descending, With angel train attending, Thy gates of glistening pearl unfold On streets of glassy gold. No sun is there, no day or night ; But of seven-fold splendors bright. Thy Temple is the Light of Light, Jerusalem, my Home. Jerusalem, my Home, Where shines the royal Throne, Each king casts down his golden crown Before the Lamb thereon. Thence flows the crystal River, And, flowing on forever, ^ Lyra Americana. 107 With leaves and fruits on either hand, The Tree of Life shall stand. In blood-washed robes, all white and fair, The Lamb shall lead His chosen there, While clouds of incense fill the air, Jerusalem, my Home. Jerusalem, my Home, Where saints in triumph sing. While, tuned in tones of golden harps. Heaven's boundless arches ring. No more in tears and sighing Our weak hosannas dying, But hallelujahs loud and high Roll thundering through the sky. One chorus thrills their countless throngs 5 Ten thousand times ten thousand tongues Fill them with overwhelming songs, Jerusalem, my Home. Jerusalem, my Home, Thou sole all glorious Bride, Creation shouts with joy to see Thy Bridegroom at thy side : The Man yet interceding. His Hands and Feet yet bleeding, And Him the billowy hosts adore Lord God for evermore, io8 Lyra Americana. And " Holy, Holy, Holy," cry The choirs that crowd thy courts on high. Resounding everlastingly, Jerusalem, my Home, Jerusalem, my Home, Where saints in glory reign, Thy haven safe, O when shall I, Poor storm-tossed pilgrim, gain ? At distance dark and dreary. With sin and sorrow weary. For thee I toil, for thee I pray. For thee I long alway. And lo ! mine eyes shall see thee, too : O rend in twain, thou vail of blue. And let the Golden City through — Jerusalem, my Home ! John Henry Hopkins, Jr. Lyra Americana. 109 JERUSALEM. ERUSALEM! Jerusalem! It is not to behold The glory of thy jasper-walls, Thy streets of purest gold ; To see the twelve Apostles' names Upon thy bulwark traced ; Thy gates — each one a solid pearl, By each an angel placed j The stream of life from 'neath the throne, Nor yet that throne to see — That I would pray, " O may my home Be found at last in Thee ! " No earthly eye I know hath seen The glories that are thine ; Nor ear hath heard such strains as rise From 'mid the host divine. 110 Lyra Americana. But O ! than all thy streets can boast My eager eyes would see ; Jesus, the precious Lamb of God, Who died to ransom me ! " Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! Name ever dear to me, O may at last my name be found," With Christ, my Lord, in Thee ! George H. Houghton. Lyra Americana. 1 1 1 THE WORD. N the beginning was the Word : Athwart the chaos-night It gleamed with quick creative power, ^^ And there was life and light. Thy Word, O God ! is living yet. Amid earth's restless strife New harmony creating still. And ever higher life. And, as that Word moves surely on, The light, ray after ray, Streams further out athwart the dark. And night grows into day. O Word that broke the stillness first, Sound on ! and never cease Till all earth's darkness be made light. And all her discord peace ! 112 Lyra Americana. Till wail of woe, and clank of chain, And bruit of battle stilled — The world with Thy great music's pulse, O Word of Love ! be thrilled. Till selfish passion, strife, and wrong Thy summons shall have heard, And Thy creation be complete, O Thou Eternal World ! S. Longfellow. Lyra Americana. EXCEPT A MAN BE BORN AGAIN HOU must be born again : Such was the solemn word To him who came, not all in vain, By night to seek his Lord. Thou must be born again — But not the birth of clay : The immortal seed must thence obtain Deliverance into day. Thou, in thy inmost mind, Must own the same control — The same regenerating wind Must move and guide thy soul. Except thou choose and trace The steps the Master trod, Thou canst not be an heir of grace, A conscious child of God. 114 Lyra Americana. The mortal's birth is past; The immortars birth must be : Seek well, and thou shalt find at last That blest nativity. Johns. Lyra Americana. 115 ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM, HE stood up in the meekness of a heart Resting on God, and held her fair young child Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. The prayers went up devoutly, and the lips Of the good man glowed fervently with faith That it would be, even as he had prayed, And the sweet child gathered to the fold Of Jesus. As the holy words went on Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears. Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft With the baptismal water. Then I thought That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears Would be another Covenant — which sin ii6 Lyra Americana. And the temptations of the world, and death, Would leave unbroken — and that she would know In the clear light of heaven, how very strong The prayer which pressed them from her heart had been In leading its young spirit up to God. N. P. Willis. Lyra Americana. 117 SO THET DID EAT AND WERE FILLED, HOUSANDS completely fed With a few loaves of bread Such as would barely form one household's fare, And, when the feast was o'er, The fragments were a store Enough for needy hundreds still to share. What was the Power that wrought This wonder passing thought ? What but that Word divine, which called of yore Systems and suns to grace The mighty realms of space. And then with Hfe and beauty spread them ii8 Lyra Americana. God only can create ; — None less could arrogate The power to sway all nature with a nod : O Christ ! be Thou adored, — For that creative word Which blessed the bread was God's, — and Thou art God ! Joseph H. Clinch. Lyra Americana. 119 DEAR FRIEND WHOSE PRESENCE IN THE HOUSE. ^EAR Friend, whose presence in the house, Whose gracious word benign Could once, at Cana's wedding feast, Change water into wine. Come, visit us ! and when dull work Grows weary, line on line. Revive our souls, and let us see Life's water turned to wine. Gay mirth shall deepen Into joy. Earth's hopes grow half divine. When Jesus visits us, to make Life's water glow as wine. The social talk, the evening fire. The homely household shrine, 120 Lyra Americana. Grow bright with angel visits, when The Lord pours out the wine. For when self-seeking turns to love, Not knowing mine nor thine. The miracle again is wrought, And water turned to wine. J. F. Clarke. Lyra Americana. I2i THE HOLT COMMUNION, REAK ye the bread, and pour the wine, As ye have seen your Master do ; c> W^^^ 9 This body and this blood of mine Is broken thus and shed for you." Yes, mighty God ! while life remains. We will remember him who bled ; Whom Death, in his cold, palsying chains, A captive and a victim led. We will remember Him, by whom Those strong and icy chains were riven ; Who scattered round His opening tomb Their broken links, — and rose to heaven. And, while with gratitude we dwell On all his tears of love and woe, 1 22 Lyra Americana. Let death's chill tide before us swell ! Let its still waters darkly flow ! We'll give our bodies to the stream ; 'Twill bear us — (for the dead shall rise, Or faith is vain, and hope a dream,) To fairer shores and brighter skies. John Pierpont. Lyra Americana. 123 EATING AND DRINKING WITH CHRIST LOW on sweet tears of joy and peace, Which none but saintly eyes dis- distil ; Ah that these tears might never cease, Till love and rapture have their fill ! And would, this calm and soothing bHss, That tells my heart it is forgiven. Might always leave a thrill like this, That wafts my spirit into heaven. Ah ! there is something more than love. Embalming, in its sweets, my heart ; What can it be — 'tis from above. Oh may it never hence depart ! Say, is there some celestial balm Dropt from the torrent joys of heaven, Whose loveliness inspires a calm Serener than the calm of even ? 124 Lyra Americana. Is there some seraph-spirit sent, Diffusing rapture from his wings, To steep my bosom in content ; Unknown, unfelt by earthly things ? No, something purer far must dwell Within this ravished soul of mine ; 'Tis what no mortal tongue may tell, 'Tis more than holy — 'tis divine. My God ! my Jesus ! is it Thou Art rapturing my heart with bliss ? Tell me, art Thou within me now ; — Could man deserve a boon like this ? Yes, stooping from His heaven above, (He cannot dwell from man apart) His dearest throne, he makes my love. The tabernacle of my heart. Charles Constantine Pise. Lyra Americana. 125 J JSf ANCIENT SACRAMENTAL HYMN. BREAD to pilgrims given, O Food that angels eat, O Manna sent from heaven, For heaven-born natures meet ! Give us, for Thee long pining, To eat till richly filled ; Till earth's delights resigning. Our every wish is stilled ! O Water, life-bestowing. From out the Saviour's heart, A fountain purely flowing, A fount of love thou art ! Oh let us freely tasting, Our burning thirst assuage ! Thy sweetness never wasting. Avails from age to age. Jesus, this feast receiving. We Thee unseen adore ; 126 Lyra Americana. Thy faithful word believing, We take — and doubt no more ; Give us, Thou true and loving, On earth to live in Thee; Then, Death the vail removing. Thy glorious face to see ! Translated by Ray Palmer, Lyra Americana. 127 RELIGION IN rOUTH. F thou dost truly seek to live With all the joys that life can give ; If thy young feet w^ould gladly press The ways of peace and happiness ; Go thou, with fresh and fervent love, To Him who dwells in light above. Who sees ten thousand suns obey. Yet listens when the lowly pray. Cling thou to Jesus faithfully. As vines embrace their guardian tree ; Nor shame thy pure and lofty creed, Be His in thought, and word, and deed ; And thou shalt breathe in this low world. An eagle chained, with wings unfurled. Prepared, when once thy bonds are riven. To soar away, and flee to Heaven. James Gilborne Lyons. 128 Lyra Americana. / WILL ARISE AND GO UNTO MT FATHER, O Thine eternal arms, O God ! Take us, Thine erring children, in; From dangerous paths too boldly trod, From wandering thoughts and dreams of sin. Those arms were round our childish ways, A guard through helpless years to be ; O leave not our maturer days. We still are helpless without Thee ! We trusted hope and pride and strength ; Our strength proved false, or pride was vain, Our dreams have faded all at length — We come to Thee, O Lord ! again. Lyra Americana. 129 A guide to trembling steps yet be ! Give us of Thine eternal powers ! So shall our paths all lead to Thee, And life smile on like childhood's hours. T. W. HiGGINSON. 6* 130 Lyra Americana. THE CHRIST CHILD, ESUS a child His course begun : How radiant dawned His heavenly day ! And those who such a race would run As early should be on their way. His Father's business was His care; Yet in man's favour still He grew : O, might we learn by thought and prayer, Like Him a work of love to do ! For all mankind He came, nor yet An infant's visit would deny; Nor friend nor mother did forget In His last hour of agony. Lyra Americana. 13' O children ask Him to impart That spirit clear, that temper mild, Which made the mother in her heart Keep all the sayings of her Child. Bless Him who said, of such as you His Father's kingdom is, and still, His yoke to bear. His work to do. Study His life to learn His will. M. F. OssoLi. 132 Lyra Americana. PUT ON THE WHOLE ARMOUR OF GOD. fOUNG soldier of the cross, be- ware ! A watchful foe besets thy way, His bow is ready bent to slay The soul unarmed and bare : — Gird on thine armour for the fight, Close on the left hand and the right. Let truth's pure girdle belt thee round. Let Christ's own righteousness complete Protect thy breast, — and be thy feet With Gospel fitness bound ; Thy shield be Faith's unchanging light. Salvation's hope thy helmet bright. Grasp in thy hand that potent sword In Heaven's high armoury prepared, Lyra Americana. 133 Quick to attack, and strong to guard, The weapon of God's Word ; Then, strong in prayer, pursue thy way, Nor foe shall crush nor arrow slay ! Joseph H. Clinch. ^34 Lyra Americana. STILL, STILL WITH THEE. iTILL, still with Thee — when pur- ple morning breaketh, When the bird waketh and the shadows flee ; Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight, Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with Thee! Alone with Thee — amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of nature newly born ; Alone with Thee in breathless adoration. In the calm dew and freshness of the As in the dawning, o'er the waveless ocean. The image of the morning star doth rest, So in this stillness. Thou beholdest only Thine image in the waters of my breast. Lyra Americana. 135 Still, still with Thee! as to each new-born morning A fresh and solemn splendour still is given, So doth this blessed consciousness awaking. Breathe each day, nearness unto Thee and Heaven. When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer. Sweet the repose beneath Thy wings o'ershading, But sweeter still, to wake and find Thee there. So shall it be at last, in that bright morning, When the soul waketh, and life's shadows flee; Oh ! in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning, Shall rise the glorious thought— I am with Thee. Mrs. Stowe. 136 Lyra Americana. THE CHRISTIAN'S SONG. O better days can ever rise ; My cup is running over ; From east to west I turn my eyes, Nor faintest cloud discover. My life, this lowly, human way. Has more than purple splendour ; And kingly guests come day by day. Their kingly gifts to render. The earth can never grow more fair : I know her grand perfection, And wait, while ages wax and wear. With her for God's protection. I tread with the immortal strength, Nor fear the mortal feeling ; What though I stoop to death at length ; I find no room for waiHng. Lyra Americana. 137 Joy makes me humbler than my sins ; That I should see this glory ! That I should say " Lord enter in"— And know Thee and adore Thee I ask no gift beyond the gifts Thy love, O Christ ! hath given ; The fountain springing through the rifts, And daily bread from heaven. Shall I then walk with Thee, my God ? With Thee, Thou all forgiving ? Thy smile hath won me, not thy rod ; I praise Thee with the Living, Thy will is my eternal hope, My will is in Thy keeping ; Can I through heavenly sunlight grope ? Mid angel songs stand weeping ? The captive ransomed of the King, Are exiled slaves, no longer ; Oh heart, thy blest deliverer sing ! Lord, make this weak voice stronger ! I sing the power that doth restore ! A captive waits no longer; Freedom and life ? Oh, heart, adore ! God make this glad voice stronger ! 138 Lyra Americana. For Thou art glorious in the praise Thy love draws from Thy creature : Wisdom Thou art ! Ancient of Days, O Wisdom, be my teacher. And teach me. Master, in Thy way : Through loving human voices. Through earth's great glory, day by day, Through faith that aye rejoices. Or as Thou wilt ! for death is dead, And life is mine forever ; Lead me, dear Lord, and I am led ; Be Thine, all my endeavour. Caroline Chesebro. Lyra Americana. 139 THE SPIRITUAL HUSBANDMAN'S LAMENT FT, in the summer days, I've marked some wild On which the sower vainly spent his toil ; Heaven's showers distilled, but still no verdure smiled O'er all the cheerless length of that obdurate soil. How fitly pictures this dull waste, me- thought. The arid wilderness / plough in vain ! ' Cursing' steals on apace, to doom the spot Where only thorns repay the Spirit's gracious rain. 140 Lyra Americana. Lord of the vineyard, with Thy power descend ! Breathe on these hearts of stone, and bid them live ! The garden's beauty to the desert lend. And for the encumbering weed the rose of Sharon give ! Bishop Eastburn. Lyra Americana. 141 WHT STAND TE HERE ALL THE DAT IDLE? HAT can I do the cause of God to aid ? Can powers so weak as mine Forward the great design ? Not by young hands are mighty efforts made. Not mighty efforts, but a willing mind, — Not strong, but ready hands The Vineyard's Lord demands ; For every age fit labour He can find. Come, then, in childhood to the vineyard's gate: Even you can dress the roots. And train the tender shoots. Then why in sloth and sin contented wait ? 142 Lyra Americana. To move the hardened soil, — to bend and lift The fallen branch, — to tread The wine-press full and red, — These need a stronger arm — a nobler gift. But all can aid the work. The little child May gather up some weed. Or drop some fertile seed. Or strew with flowers the path which else were dark and wild. Joseph H. Clinch. Lyra Americana. 143 THE BUILDERS, LL are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time ; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme Nothing useless is, or low ; Each thing in its place is best ; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise. Time is with materials filled ; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these ; Leave no yawning gaps between ; [/|/| Lyra Americana. Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part 5 For the Gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen ; Make the house, where God may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean. Else our lives are incomplete. Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stair-ways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb. Build to-day, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base ; And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain. And one boundless reach of sky. Henry W. Longfellow. Lyra Americana. 145 HYMN: FOR SISTERS OF MERCK ORD, lead the way the Saviour went, By lane and cell obscure, And let love's treasure still be spent. Like His, upon the Poor ; Like Him through scenes of deep distress, Who bore the world's sad weight, We, in their crowded loneliness. Would seek the desolate. For Thou hast placed us side by side, In this wide world of ill, And that Thy followers may be tried. The Poor are with us still. Mfean are all offerings we can make. But Thou hast taught us, Lord, If given for the Saviour's sake. They lose not their reward. William Croswell. 1 146 Lyra Americana. THE JOT UNKNOWN IN HEAVEN, REMBLING, before Thine awful throne, O Lord, in dust my sins I own : Justice and mercy for my hfe Contend ; oh, smile, and heal the strife ! The Saviour smiles — upon my soul New tides of hope tumultuous roll ! His voice proclaims my pardon found ; Seraphic transport wings the sound ! Earth has a joy unknown in heaven, — The new-born peace of sins forgiven : Tears of such pure and rich delight. Ye angels ! never dimmed your sight. Ye know where morn exulting springs. And evening folds her drooping wings ; Lyra Americana. 147 Loud in your song : the heavenly plain Is shaken by your choral strain. But I amid your choirs shall shine, And all your knowledge will be mine ; Ye on your harps must lean to hear A secret chord that mine will bear ! James A. Hillhouse. 148 Lyra Americana. LABOUR, AUSE not to dream of the future be- fore us ; Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us ; Hark how Creations's deep musical chorus, Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven ! Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing, Never the little seed stops in its growing. More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing. Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. " Labour is worship ! " — the robin is singing ; " Labour is worship ! " — the wild bee is ringing ; Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing. Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; From the rough sod comes the soft-breathing flower ; Lyra Americana. 149 From the small insect the rich coral bower ; Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part. Labour is life ! — 'Tis the still water faileth ; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth : Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ; Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labour is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens ; Only the waving wing changes and brightens; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune. Labour is rest — from the sorrows that greet us ; Rest from all petty vexations that meet us ; Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us ; Rest from world-Sirens that lead us to ill. Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow ; Work — thou shalt ride o'er care's coming billow ; Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow : Work with a stout heart and resolute will. 1^0 Lyra Americana. Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee ; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee ; Look on yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee ; Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod. Work for some good — be it ever so slowly ; Cherish some flower — be it ever so lowly ; Labour ! — all labour is noble and holy ; Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. Frances Osgood. Lyra Americana. 151 THE WAT^ THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE. THOU Great Friend to all the sons of men, Who once appeared in humblest guise below, Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain, And call Thy brethren forth from want and woe ! We look to Thee ; Thy truth is still the Light, Which guides the nations, groping on their way. Stumbling and falling in disastrous night. Yet hoping ever for the perfect day. Yes ! Thou art still the Life ; Thou art the Way The holiest know ; — Light, Life, and Way of Heaven ! And they who dearest hope, and deepest pray. Toil by the light, life, way, which Thou hast given. T. Parker. 152 Lyra Americana. THE OVER-HEART. ** For of Him, and through Him, and to Him are all things, to whom be glory forever." BOVE, below, in sky and sod, In leaf and spar, in star and man Well might the wise Athenian scan The geometric signs of God, The measured order of His plan. And India's mystics sang aright Of the One Life pervading all, — One Being's tidal rise and fall In soul and form, in sound and sight, — Eternal outflow and recall. God is : and man in guilt and fear The central fact of Nature owns ; — Kneels trembling, by his altar-stones, Lyra Americana. i J3 And darkly dreams the ghastly smear Of blood appeases and atones. God shapes the Terror : deep within The human heart the secret lies Of all the hideous deities ; And, painted on a ground of sin, The fabled gods of torment rise ! And what is He ? — the ripe grain nods, The sweet dews fall, the sweet flowers blow; But darker signs His presence show : The earthquake and the storm are God's, And good and evil interflow. Oh, hearts of love ! Oh souls that turn Like sunflowers to the pure and blest ! To you the truth is manifest ; For they the mind of Christ discern Who lean like John upon His breast. In Him of whom the Sybil told. For whom the prophet's harp was toned. Whose need the sage and magian owned. The loving heart of God behold. The hope for which the ages groaned ! 154 ^y^^ Americana. Fade, pomp of dreadful imagery Wherewith mankind have deified Their hate, and selfishness, and pride ! Let the scared dreamer wake to see The Christ of Nazareth at his side ! What doth that holy Guide require ? — No rite of pain, nor gift of blood, But man a kindly brotherhood. Looking where duty is desire. To Him, the beautiful and good. Gone be the faithlessness of fear. And let the pitying heaven's sweet rain Wash out the altar's bloody stain ; The law of Hatred disappear, The law of love alone remain. How fall the idols false and grim ! — And lo ! their hideous wreck above The emblems of the Lamb and Dove ! Man turns from God, not God from him 5 And guilt in suffering whispers Love ! The world sits at the feet of Christ, Unknowing, blind, and unconsoled ; It yet shall touch His garment's fold. And feel the heavenly Alchemist Transform its very dust to gold. Lyra Americana. 155 The theme befitting angel tongues Beyond a mortal's scope has grown. Oh heart of mine ! with reverence own The fullness which to it belongs, And trust the unknown for the known ! John Greenleaf Whittier. 156 Lyra Americana. THE SOULS PROPHECY, LL before us lies the way ; Give the past unto the wind ; All before us is the day, Night and darkness are behind. Eden with its angels bold, Love and flowers and coolest sea, Is less an ancient story told Than a glowing prophecy. In the spirit's perfect air. In the passions tame and kind, Innocence from selfish care. The real Eden we shall find. When the soul to sin hath died. True and beautiful and sound, Then all earth is sanctified, Upsprings paradise around. Lyra Americana. 157 From the spirit-land, afar All disturbing force shall flee; Stir, nor toil, nor hope shall mar Its immortal unity. R. W. Emerson. 15B Lyra Americana. PROVIDENCE. E sendeth sun, He sendeth shower ; Alike they're needful for the flower ; And joys and tears alike are sent To give the soul fit nourishment : As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done ! Can loving children e'er reprove With murmurs whom they trust and love ? Creator ! I would ever be A trusting, loving child to Thee : As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done ! O ne'er will I at life repine ! Enough that Thou hast made it mine ; Lyra Americana. ^59 When falls the shadow cold of death, I yet will sing, with parting breath — As comes to me or shade or sun, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done ! Sarah F. Adams. i6o Lyra Americana. A GREAT KING, ABOVE ALL GODS, OW pleasing is Thy voice, O Lord, our heavenly King ! That bids the frosts retire. And wakes the lovely spring ! The rains return, the ice distills, And plains and hills forget to mourn. The morn with glory crowned, Thy hand arrays in smiles ; Thou bid'st the eve decline, Rejoicing o'er the hills. Soft suns ascend ; the mild wind blows ; And beauty glows to earth's far end. Thy showers make soft the fields ; On every side behold The ripening harvest wave Their loads of richest gold ! The labourers sing with cheerful voice, And, blest, rejoice in God, their King. Lyra Americana. i6i The thunder is His voice ; His arrows blazing fires i He glows in yonder sun, And smiles in starry choirs. The balmy breeze His breath perfumes ; His beauty blooms in flowers and trees. With life He clothes the spring ; The earth with summer warms ; He spreads the autumnal feast, And rides in wint'ry storms. His gifts divine through all appear, And round the year His glories shine. DWIGHT. i62 Lyra Americana. ALTHOUGH THE VINE ITS FRUIT DENT, LTHOUGH the vine its fruit deny. The budding fig-trees droop and die, No oil the olives yield. Yet will I trust me in my God, Yea, bend rejoicing to His rod. And by His grace be heal'd. Though fields, in verdure once array'd, By whirlwinds desolate be laid. Or parch'd by scorching beam ; Still in the Lord shall be my trust. My joy ; for, though His frown is just, His mercy is supreme. Though from the fold the flock decay, Though herds lie famish'd o'er the lea, Lyra Americana. 163 And round the empty stall ; My soul above the wreck shall rise. Its better joys are in the skies i There God is all in all. In God my strength, howe'er distrest, I yet will hope, and calmly rest, Nay, triumph in His love : My lingering soul, my tardy feet. Free as the hind He makes, and fleet, To speed my course above. Bishop H. U. Onderdonk. 164 Lyra Americana. THE PEACE OF FAITH. HEN winds are raging o'er the upper ocean, And billows wild contend with angry roar, *Tis said, far down, beneath the wild commo- tion. That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore. Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth. And silver waves chime ever peacefully. And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth. Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea. So to the heart that knows Thy love, O Purest ! There is a temple, sacred evermore. And all the babble of life's angry voices Dies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door. Lyra Americana. 165 Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth. And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully, And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth. Disturbs the soul that dwells, O Lord, in Thee. O Rest of rests ! O Peace, serene, eternal ! Thou ever livest, and Thou changest never ; And in the secret of Thy presence dwelleth Fulness of joy, forever and forever. Mrs. Stowe. i66 Lyra Americana. HTMN OF TRUST, OVE Divine, that stooped to share Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear. On Thee are cast each earth-born care, We smile at pain while Thou art near ! Though long the weary way we tread. And sorrow crown each lingering year, No path we shun, no darkness dread. Our hearts still whispering. Thou art near ! When drooping pleasure turns to grief. And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, Shall softly tell us. Thou art near ! Lyra Americana. 167 On Thee we fling our burdening woe, O Love Divine, forever dear, Content to suffer while we know. Living and dying, Thou art near ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. i68 Lyra Americana. AS THT DATS, SO SHALL THT STRENGTH BE, HEN adverse winds and waves arise, And in my heart despondence sighs ; When life her throng of cares reveals, And weakness o'er my spirit steals, Grateful I hear the kind decree, That " as my day, my strength shall be." When, with sad footsteps, memory roves 'Mid smitten joys and buried loves. When sleep my tearful pillow flies. And dewy morning drinks my sighs. Still to Thy promise. Lord ! I flee. That " as my day, my strength shall be " One trial more must yet be past. One pang — the keenest and the last ; Lyra Americana. 169 And when, with brow convulsed and pale, My feeble, quivering heart-strings fail, Redeemer ! grant my soul to see That "as her day, her strength shall be." Mrs. Sigourney. lyo Lyra Americana. Mr FJITH LOOKS UP TO THEE. Y Faith looks up to Thee, Thou Lamb of Calvary, Saviour Divine ! Now hear me while I pray ; Take all my guilt away ; Oh, let me, from this day. Be wholly Thine ! May Thy rich grace impart Strength to my fainting heart, — My zeal inspire ! As Thou hast died for me. Oh, may my love to Thee Pure, warm, and changeless be — A living fire ! While life's dark maze I tread. And griefs around me spread. Be Thou my guide ; Lyra Americana. 171 Bid darkness turn to day, Wipe sorrow's tears away, Nor let me ever stray From Thee aside. When ends life's transient dream, When death's cold, sullen stream Shall o'er me roll. Blest Saviour ! then, in love, Fear and distrust remove ; Oh, bear me safe above — A ransomed soul ! Ray Palmer. 172 Lyra Americana. FAITH. lECURELY cabined in the ship below, Through - darkness and through storm I crossed the sea, A pathless wilderness of waves to me : But yet I do not fear, because I know That He who guides the good ship o*er the waste Sees in the stars her shining pathway traced. Blindfold I walk this life's bewildering maze ; Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain pass. Through thornset barren, and through deep morass : But strong in faith I tread the uneven ways, Lyra Americana. 173 And bare my head unshrinking to the blast. Because my Father's arm is round me cast ; And if the way seems rough, I only clasp The hand that leads me, with a firmer grasp. Anne C. Lynch. 174 Lyra Americana. STILL WILL WE TRUST. 'TILL will we trust, though earth seem dark and dreary, And the heart faint beneath His chastening rod. Though rough and steep our pathway, worn and weary. Still will we trust in God ! Our eyes see dimly till by Faith anointed. And our blind choosing brings us grief and pain ; Through Him alone who hath our way appointed. We find our peace again. Choose for us, God ! — nor let our weak prefer- ring Cheat our poor souls of good Thou hast de- signed : Lyra Americana. 175 Choose for us, God ! — Thy wisdom is unerring, And we are fools and blind. So from our sky, the night shall furl her shadows. And Day pour gladness through his golden gates ; Our rough path leads to flower-enamelled meadows Where Joy our coming waits. Let us press on in patient self-denial, Accept the hardship, shrinking not from loss — Our guerdon lies beyond the hour of trial ; Our Crown, beyond the Cross. William H. Burleigh. 176 Lyra Americana. FAITH'S REPOSE. ATHER! beneath Thy sheltering wing In sweet security we rest, And fear no evil earth can bring, In life, in death, supremely blest. For life is good whose tidal flow The motions of Thy will obeys; And death is good, that makes us know The Life Divine that all things sways. And good it is to bear the cross, A nd so Thy perfect peace to win : And nought is ill, nor brings us loss. Nor works us harm, save only sin. Redeemed from this, we ask no more, But trust the love that saves to guide — The grace that yields so rich a store. Will grant us all we need beside. William H. Burleigh. Lyra Americana. 177 ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP, OCKED in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep ; Secure I rest upon the wave, For Thou, O Lord ! hast power to save. I know Thou wilt not slight my call ! For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall ; And calm and peaceful is my sleep. Rocked in the cradle of the deep. And such the trust that still were mine. Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine, Or though the tempest's fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death ! 8* 178 Lyra Americana. In ocean caves still safe with Thee, The germs of immortality ; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep. Mrs. Willard. Lyra Americana. 179 THE ANGEL OF THE LORD. NWARD speed thy conquering flight, Angel, onward speed, Cast abroad thy radiant light, Bid the shades recede ; Tread the idols in the dust. Heathen fanes destroy ; Spread the Gospel's love and trust. Spread the Gospel's joy. Onward speed thy conquering flight. Angel, onward fly ! Long has been the reign of night ; Bring the morning nigh. Unto thee earth's sufferers lift Their imploring wail ; Bear them heaven's holy gift Ere their courage fail. l8o Lyra Americana. Onward speed thy conquering flight, Angel, onward speed ! Morning bursts upon our sight, Lo ! the time decreed : Now the Lord his Kingdom takes. Thrones and empires fall ; Now the joyous song awakes, "Godis Allin All!" S. F. Smith. Lyra Americana. 181 THE SACRIFICE OF PRJISE. ORD with glowing heart I'll praise Thee, For the bliss Thy love bestows ; For the pardoning grace that saves me, And the peace that from it flows : Help, O Lord, my weak endeavour, This dull soul to rapture raise : Thou must light the flame, or never Can my love be warmed to praise. Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee. Wretched wanderer, far astray ; Found thee lost, and kindly brought thee From the paths of death away : Praise, with love's devoutest feeling, Him who saw thy guilt-born fear, And, the light of hope revealing. Bade the blood-stain'd cross appear. Lord, this bosom's ardent feeling Vainly would my lips express : l82 Lyra Americana. Low before Thy footstep kneeling, Deign Thy suppliant's prayer to bless : Let Thy grace, my soul's chief pleasure, Love's pure flame within me raise ; And since words can never measure. Let my love show forth Thy praise. S. F. Key. Lyra Americana. 183 JO GOD, MOST HIGH. MY Lord, I have but Thee ; Other friends are faint and few, To myself I am not true ; Yet, my God, Thou lovest me. I am poor and have no more But Thy loVe v^^ithin my heart ; Earth shall never tear apart That vi^hich is my hidden store. Many, many doubts and fears, I have many pains and cares ; But Thou camest, at unawares, And I see Thee through my tears. I would never be my own. Nor on friends my heart strings twine ; I do seek to be but Thine, And to love but Thee alone. 184 Lyra Americana. Jesus ! while Thy cross I see, Though my heart do bleed with woe. By those blessed streams I know, Blood of Thine was shed for me. my Lord ! be Thou my guide j Let me hold Thee by the hand, Then, in drear and barren land, 1 will seek np friend beside. Robert Lowell. ■ In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led. Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution. She lives, whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing. Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives. Thinking that our remembrance, though un- spoken. May reach her where she lives. Lyra Americana. 195 Not as a child shall we again behold her j For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child ; But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed. The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest, — We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing The grief that must have way. Henry W. Longfellow. 196 Lyra Americana. WAITING BT THE GATE. ESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone by, Upon whose top the clouds in eter- nal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night j I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow des- cant more. And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er. Lyra Americana. 197 Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now, There steps a weary one with a pale and fur- rowed brow ; His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought ; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power. I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day. And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes ; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair. Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and fair. Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays ! Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze ! igS Lyra Americana. Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where ! I grieve for life's bright promise, just shewn and then withdrawn ; But still the sun shines round me : the evening bird sings on, And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate. In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. Once more the gates are opened ; an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the green sward strows Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows ! So come from every region, so enter, side by side. The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. Lyra Americana. 199 Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray, And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way. And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear. And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. I mark the joy, the terror ; yet these, within my heart. Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart. And In the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea, 1 stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. William Cullen Bryant. 200 Lyra Americana. Mr PSALM, MOURN no more my vanished years Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again. The west winds blow, and sighing low, I hear the glad streams run ; The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun. No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear ; But, grateful, take the good I find, The best of now and here. I plough no more a desert land. To harvest weed and tare ; The manna dropping from God's hand Rebukes my painful care. Lyra Americana. 201 I break my pilgrim staff — I lay- Aside my toiling oar ; The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door. The airs of Spring may never play Among the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the Autumn morn j Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringed lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given ; — The woods shall wear their robes of praise. The south wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky. Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong; The graven flowers that wreathe the sword Make not the blade less strong. But smiting hands shall learn to heal, — To build as to destroy ; Nor less my heart for others feel That I the more enjoy. 9* 202 Lyra Americana. All as God wills, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have told ! Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track : — That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back ; — That more and more a Providence Of Love is understood. Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good ; That death seems but a covered way Which opens into light. Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight ; — That care and trial seem at last. Through Memory's sunset air. Like mountain-ranges overpast. In purple distance fair ; — That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm. And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm. Lyra Americana. 203 And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west winds play ; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day. John Greenleaf Whittier. 204 Lyra Americana. THE FELLOWSHIP OF SUFFERING. HY cruel crown of Thorns ! But where, O Lord, is mine ? Are there for me no scoffs and scorns, Since only such were Thine ? Or having named Thy name, Shall I no burden take ? And is there left no thorn, no shame. To suffer for Thy sake ? Unscourged of any whip, Unpierced of any sting, — O Lord, how faint my fellowship With Thy sad suffering ! Yet Thy dread sacrifice So fills my soul with woe. Lyra Americana. 205 That all the fountains of mine eyes Well up and overflow. The spear that pierced Thy side Gave wounds to more than Thee. Within my soul, O Crucified, Thy Cross is laid on me. And as Thy rocky tomb Was in a garden fair. Where round about stood flowers in bloom, To sweeten all the air, — So In my heart of stone I sepulchre Thy death. While thoughts of Thee, like roses blown, Bring sweetness in their breath. Arise not, O my Dead ! — As one whom Mary sought. And found an empty tomb instead. Her spices all for nought, — O Lord, not so depart From my enshrining breast. But lie anointed in a heart That by Thy death is blest. 206 Lyra Americana. Or if Thou shalt arise, Abandon not Thy grave, But bear it with Thee to the skies, — A heart that Thou shalt save ! Theodore Tjlton. Lyra Americana. 207 THE HOUR-GLASS. LAS ! how swift the moments fly How flash the hours along ! Scarce here, yet gone already by,- The burden of a song ; See childhood, youth, and manhood pass, And age with furrowed brow ; Time was — time shall be — drain the glass — But where in Time is Now ? Time is the measure but of change, No present hour is found ; The Past, the Future, fill the range Of Time's unceasing round. Where then is now ? In realms above. With God's atoning Lamb, In regions of eternal love. Where sits enthroned " I AM." Then, Pilgrim, let thy joys and tears On Time no longer lean ; 208 Lyra Americana. But henceforth all thy hopes and fears From earth's affection wean ; To God let votive accents rise ; With truth^with virtue live ; So all the bliss that Time denies, Eternity shall give. John Quincy Adams. Lyra Americana. 209 THE ALPINE SHEEP, HEN on my ear your loss was knelled, And tender sympathy upburst, A little spring from memory welled, Which once had quenched my bitter thirst ; And I was fain to bear to you A portion of its mild relief, That it might be a healing dew. To steal some fever from your grief. After our child's untroubled breath Up to the Father took its way. And on our home the shade of Death, Like a long twilight haunting lay, — And friends came round, with us to weep Her little spirit's swift remove, 210 Lyra Americana. The story of the Alpine Sheep Was told to us by one we love. They, in the valley's sheltering care, Soon crop the meadow's tender prime. And when the sod grows brown and bare. The Shepherd strives to make them climb,— To airy shelves of pasture green. That hang along the mountain side, — Where grass and flowers together lean. And down through mist the sunbeams slide. But naught can tempt the timid things The steep and rugged path to try, Though sweet the Shepherd calls and sings. And seared below the pastures lie, — Till in his arms his lambs he takes, Along the dizzy verge to go, Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, They follow on o'er rock and snow. And in those pastures, lifted fair. More dewy-soft than lowland mead The Shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed. Lyra Americana. 211 This parable by Nature breathed, Blew on me as the south-wind free O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed From icy thraldom to the sea. A blissful vision, through the night Would all my happy senses sway. Of the Good Shepherd on the height. Or climbing up the starry way, — Holding our little lamb asleep. While, like the murmur of the sea, Sounded that voice along the deep. Saying, " Arise and follow me." Maria White Lowell. 212 Lyra Americana. LOWLY AND SOLEMN BE, OWLY and solemn be Thy children's cry to Thee, ^mjx?^ Father Divine ; ^^^i^ A hymn of suppliant breath, Owning that life and death Alike are Thine ! O Father, in that hour, When earth all helping power Shall disavow — When spear, and shield, and crown, In faintness are cast down — Sustain us. Thou ! By Him who bowe^ to take The death-cup for our sake. The thorn, the rod — From whom the last dismay Was not to pass away. Aid us, O God ! Mrs. Sigournev. Lyra Americana. 213 DTING, AND TET LIVING, fHE died — yet is not dead ! ^^ Ye saw a daisy on her tomb : It bloomed to die — she died to bloom ; Her summer hath not sped. She died — ^yet is not dead ! Ye saw her jewels all unset ; But God let fall a coronet To crown her ransomed head. She died — yet is not dead ! Ye saw her gazing toward a sky Whose lights are shut from mortal eye ; She lingered — ^yearned — and fled. She died — yet is not dead ! Through pearly gate, on golden street, She went her way with shining feet : — Go ye, and thither tread ! Theodore Tilton. 214 ■'^y^^ Americana. PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERINGS. ERFECT through sufFerings": may it be, Saviour, made perfect, thus, for me! I bow, I kiss, I bless the rod. That brings me nearer to my God. "Perfect through suffering" : be Thy Cross The crucible to purge my dross ! Welcome, for that, its pangs, its scorns. Its scourge, its nails, its crown of thorns. " Perfect through suffering " : heap the fire, And pile the sacrificial pyre ; But spare each loved and loving one, And let me feed the flames, alone. Lyra Americana. 215 "Perfect through sufFering" : urge the blast, More free, more full, more fierce, more fast ; It reeks not where the dust be trod, So the flame waft my soul to God. Bishop Doane. 2i6 Lyra Americana. BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN, H, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man, has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep. The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears ; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years. There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night ; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light. And thou who o'er thy friend's low bier, Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Lyra Americana. 217 Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again. Nor let the goodman's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny, — Though with a pierced and bleeding heart And spurned of man, he goes to die. For God hath marked each sorrowing day And numbered every secret tear, ) And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay \ For all His children suffer here. ' William Cullen Bryant. 10 2i8 Lyra Americana. ^THGI EAPAIO^ n^ AKMflN TTUTO- MENO^, St. Ignatius to St. Polycarp. (Both Martyrs.) TAND like an anvil," when the stroke, Of stalwart men, falls fierce and fast ; Storms, but more deeply, root the oak. Whose brawny arms embrace the blast. " Stand like an anvil," when the sparks Fly far and wide, a fiery shower ; Virtue and truth must still be marks. Where malice proves its want of power. " Stand like an anvil," when the bar Lies, red and glowing, on its breast ; Duty shall be life's leading star. And conscious innocence, its rest. Lyra Americana. 219 " Stand like an anvil," when the sound Of pond'rous hammers pains the ear ; Thine, but the still and stern rebound Of the great heart that cannot fear. " Stand like an anvil ; " noise and heat Are born of earth, and die w^Ith time ; The soul, like God, its source and seat, Is solemn, still, serene, sublime. Bishop Doane. 220 Lyra Americana. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS, HERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that glow between. " Shall I have nought that is fair ? " saith he ; " Have nought but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves ; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowrets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled j Lyra Americana. 221 " Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where He was once a child. " They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white. These sacred blossoms wear." And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love ; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. O, not in cruelty, not in wrath. The Reaper came that day ; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth. And took the flowers away. Henry W. Longfellow. 222 Lyra Americana. EARLY LOST^ EARLY SAVED. riilTHIN her downy cradle, there lay a Httle child, And a group of hovering angels unseen upon her smiled j When a strife arose among them, a loving, holy strife, Which should shed the richest blessing over the new-born life. One breathed upon her features, and the babe in beauty grew. With a cheek like morning's blushes, and an eye of azure hue ; Till every one who saw her, were thankful for the sight Of a face so sweet and radiant with ever fresh delight. Lyra Americana. 223 Another gave her accents, and a voice as musical As a spring-bird's joyous carol, or a rippling streamlet's fall ; Till all who heard her laughing, or her u^ords of childish grace. Loved as much to listen to her, as to look upon her face. Another brought from heaven a clear and gentle mind. And within the lovely casket the precious gem enshrined ; Till all who knew her wondered, that God should be so good, As to bless with such a spirit a world so cold and rude. Thus did she grow In beauty, in melody, and truth. The budding of her childhood just opening into youth ; And to our hearts yet dearer, every moment than before. She became, though we thought fondly, heart could not love her more. 224 ^y^^ Americana. Then out spake another angel, nobler, brighter than the rest. As with strong arm, but tender, he caught her to his breast : " Ye have made her all too lovely for a child of mortal race. But no shade of human sorrow shall darken o'er her face ; " Ye have tuned to gladness only, the accents of her tongue. And no wail of human anguish, shall from her lips be wrung ; Nor shall the soul that shineth so purely from within Her form of earth-born frailty, ever know a sense of sin. " Lulled in my faithful bosom, I will bear her far away. Where there is no sin, nor anguish, nor sorrow, nor decay ; And mine a boon more glorious than all your gifts shall be — Lo ! I crown her happy spirit with immor- tality ! " Lyra Americana. 225 Then on his heart, our darling yielded up her gentle breath, For the stronger, brighter angel who loved her best, was Death. George W. Bethune. 10^ 226 Lyra Americana. + THE CHANGELING, HAD a little daughter, And she was given to me To lead me gently backward To the Heavenly Father's knee. That I, by the force of nature. Might in some dim wise divine The depth of his infinite patience To this wayward soul of mine. I know not how others saw her. But to me she was wholly fair. And the light of heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ; For it was as wavy and golden. And as many changes took. As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples On the yellow bed of a brook. To what can I liken her smiling Upon me, her kneeling lover, Lyra Americana. 227 How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids, And dimpled her wholly over, Till her outstretched hands smiled also, And I almost seemed to see The very heart of her mother Sending sun through her veins to me ! She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth. And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels Stole my little daughter away ; Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari But loosened the hampering strings. And when they had opened her cage-door, My little bird used her wings. But they left In her stead a changeling, A little angel child. That seems like her bud in blossom. And smiles as she never smiled : When I wake in the morning, I see it Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet Alone 'neath the awful sky. As weak, yet as trustful also ; For the whole year long I see 228 Lyra Americana. All the wonders of fanciful Nature Still worked for the love of me ; Winds wander, and dews drip earthward. Rain falls, suns rise and set. Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet. The child is not mine as the first was, I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly And bless it upon my breast ; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle, And sits in my little one's chair. And the light of the heaven she's gone to Transfigures its golden hair. James Russell Lowell. Lyra Americana. 229 DIES IRM, AY of vengeance, without morrow ! Earth shall end in flame and sorrow, As from Saint and Seer we bor- row. Ah ! what terror Is impending, When the Judge is seen descending, And each secret veil Is rending. To the throne, the trumpet sounding. Through the sepulchres resounding. Summons all, with voice astounding. Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking. When, the grave's long slumber breaking, Man to judgment Is awaking. On the written Volume's pages. Life Is shown In all its stages — Judgment-record of past ages ! 230 Lyra Americana. Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning, Darkest mysteries explaining, Nothing unavenged remaining. What shall I then say, unfriended. By no advocate attended. When the just are scarce defended. King of majesty tremendous. By Thy saving grace defend us, Fount of pity, safety send us ! Holy Jesus, meek, forbearing. For my sins the death-crown wearing, Save me, in that day, despairing. Worn and weary Thou hast sought me ; By Thy cross and passion bought me ; — Spare the hope Thy labours brought me. Righteous Judge of retribution. Give, O give me absolution Ere the day of dissolution. As a guilty culprit groaning. Flushed my face, my errors owning. Hear, O God, my spirit's moaning ! Lyra Americana. 231 Thou to Mary gav'st remission, Heard'st the dying thief's petition, Bad'st me hope in my contrition. In my prayers no grace discerning. Yet on me -Thy favour turning. Save my soul from endless burning ! Give me, when Thy sheep confiding Thou art from the goats dividing, On Thy right a place abiding ! When the wicked are confounded, And by bitter flames surrounded, Be my joyful pardon sounded ! Prostrate, all my guilt discerning. Heart as though to ashes turning ; Save, O save me from the burning ! Day of weeping, when from ashes Man shall rise 'mid lightning flashes. Guilty, trembling with contrition. Save him, Father, from perdition ! John A. Dix. Translated from the Breviary, 232 Lyra Americana. O, ANGEL OF THE LAND OF PEACE. ANGEL of the land of peace, When wilt thou ever come for me ? I fain would be where sorrows cease, I dread no more thy kind release, I wait for thee. Sleep shuns mine eyes — mine inner sight Is turning dimly heaven-ward. To that far land of love and light. Where angels all the silent night Earth's children guard. My yearning soul would fain demand, O, holy angels, pure and blest. Where, 'ipid yon happy, shining band, In all the heavenly Fatherland, My lost ones rest ! Lyra Americana. 233 Thou, who alone, when man forgot His heavenly innocence, and fell ! Still pitying, lingered round the spot To soothe the anguish of his lot — Thou, Thou canst tell ! For Thou, with sweet and loving smile, Didst gently lure them to Thy breast, And bear them from this world of guile, Thy pale, pure angel lips the while Upon them prest. Dark grew my soul — till down the air Thy seraph-smile upon me fell ! And then I knew, from sin and care. That Thou my little ones didst bear With God to dwell ! O, angel of the land of peace ! When wilt Thou ever come for me ? I fain would be where sorrows cease 5 I dread no more Thy kind release ; I wait for Thee ! Mrs. C. M. Sawyer. 234 ^y^^ Americana. VISIT ME WITH THY SALVATION, ILT Thou not visit me ? The plant beside me feels Thy gentle dew ; Each blade of grass I see, From Thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew. Wilt Thou not visit me ? Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone j And every hill and tree Lend but one voice, the voice of Thee alone. Come ! for I need Thy love. More than the flower, the dew, or grass the rain ; Come, like Thy holy dove. And let me in Thy sight rejoice to live again. Lyra Americana. 235 Yes ; Thou wilt visit me ; Nor plant nor tree Thine eye delights so well As when, from sin set free, Man's spirit comes with Thine in peace to dwell. Jones Very. 236 Lyra Americana. THE SPIRIT, IN OUR HEARTS, HE Spirit, in our hearts, Is whispering, " Sinner, come : " The bride, the church of Christ, proclaims To all His children, " Come ! " Let him that heareth say To all about him, " Come ! " Let him that thirsts for righteousness. To Christ, the fountain, come ! Yea, whosoever will, O let him freely come. And freely drink the stream of life ; 'Tis Jesus bids him come. Lo ! Jesus, who invites. Declares, " I quickly come ; " Lord, even so ! we wait Thine hour ; O blest Redeemer, come ! Bishop H. U. Onderdonk. Lyra Americana. 237 A SUPPLICATION. LOVE Divine ! lay on me burdens, if Thou wilt ; Burdens to break, in mercy, my fond, feverish sleep ; Turn comforts into avi^ful prophets to my guilt, Let me but at Thy wondrous footstool fall and weep ! Visit and change, uplift, ennoble, recreate me ! Ordain whatever masters in Thy saving school ; Let the whole eager host of Fashion's flatterers hate me. So Thou wilt henceforth guide me by Thy loving rule. 238 Lyra Americana. I pray not, Lord, to be redeemed from mortal sorrow ; Redeem me only from my vain and mean self- love ; Then let each night of grief lead in a mourning morrow. Fear shall not shake my trust in Thee, — my Peace above. Yet while the Resurrection waves its signs august. Like morning's dewy banners on a cloudless sky. My weak feet cling enamoured to the parching dust. And, on the sand, poor pebbles lure my roving eye. Ye witnessings of silent, sad Gethsem- ane, — That shaded garden whence light breaks for all our earth, — Around my anguish let your faithful influence be! Ye prayers and sighs divine, be my immortal birth ! Lyra Americana. 239 Vales of Repentance mount to hills of high desire ; Seven times seven years earn the Sabbatic Rest ; Earth's fickle, cruel lap — ^alternate frost and fire — Tempers beloved disciples for the Master's breast. O Way for all that live ! heal us by pain and loss ; Fill all our years with toil, and bless us with Thy rod. Thy bonds bring wider freedom ; climbing by Thy cross, Wins that brave height where looms the city of our God ! O Sunshine, rising ever on our night of sad- ness ! O Best of all our good, and Pardoner of our sin ! Look down with pity on our unbelieving mad- ness ! To Heaven's great welcome take us, home- sick pilgrims, in ! 240 Lyra Americana. Spirit that overcame the world's long tribula- tion Try faltering faith, and make it firm through much enduring ; Feed weary hearts with patient hopes of thy salvation ; Make strait submission, more than luxury's ease, alluring. Hallow our wit with prayer ; our mastery steep in meekness ; Pour on our study inspiration's holy light ; Hew out, for Christ's dear Church, a Future without weakness. Quarried from Thine Eternal Beauty, Order, Might ! Met, there, mankind's great Brotherhood of souls and Powers, Raise thou full praises from its farthest corners dim ; Pour down, O steadfast Sun, thy beams on all its towers ; Roll through its wide-world spaces Faith's majestic hymn. Lyra Americana. 241 Come, age of God's own Truth, after man's age of Fables ! Seed sown in Eden, yield the nation's healing tree ! Ebal and Sinai, Mamre's tents, the Hebrew tables. All look towards Olivet, and bend to Calvary. Fold of the tender Shepherd ! rise, and spread ! Arch o'er our frailty roofs of everlasting strength ! Be all the Body gathered to its living Head ! Wanderers, we faint : O, let us find our Lord at length. F. D. Huntington. 11 242 Lyra Americana. THE CLOUD ON THE WAT, lEE before us, in our journey, broods a mist upon the ground ; Thither leads the path we walk in, blending with that gloomy bound. Never eye hath pierced its shadows to the mys- tery they screen ; Those who once have passed within it never more on earth are seen. Now it seems to stoop beside us, now at seem- ing distance lowers. Leaving banks that tempt us onward bright vinth summer-green and flowers. Yet it blots the way forever ; there our journey ends at last ; Into that dark cloud we enter, and are gathered to the past. Thou who, in this flinty pathway, leading through a stranger-land. Lyra Americana. 243 Passest down the rocky valley, walking with me hand in hand, Which of us shall be the soonest folded to that dim Unknown ? Which shall leave the other walking in this flinty path alone ? Even now I see thee shudder, and thy cheek is white with fear. And thou clingest to my side as comes that darkness sweeping near. " Here," thou say'st, " the path is rugged, sown with thorns that wound the feet ; But the sheltered glens are lovely, and the rivu- let's song is sweet ; Roses breathe from tangled thickets ; lilies bend from hedges brown ; Pleasantly between the pelting showers the sun- shine gushes down ; Dear are those who walk beside us, they whose looks and voices make All this rugged region cheerful, till I love it for their sake. Far be yet the hour that takes me where that chilly shadow lies. From the things I know and love, and from the sight of loving eyes." So thou murmurest, fearful one ; but see, we tread a rougher way ; 244 Lyra Americana. Fainter glow the gleams of sunshine that upon the dark rocks play ; Rude winds strew the faded flowers upon the crags o'er which we pass ; Banks of verdure, when we reach them, hiss with tufts of withered grass. One by one we miss the voices which we loved so well to hear ; One by one the kindly faces in that shadow dis- appear. Yet upon the mist before us fix thine eyes with closer view ; See beneath its sullen skirts, the rosy morning glimmers through. One whose feet the thorns have wounded pass- ed that barrier and came back. With a glory on His footsteps lighting yet the dreary track. Boldly enter where He entered ; all that seems but darkness here. When thou hast passed beyond it, haply shall be crystal clear. Viewed from that serener realm, the walks of human hfe may lie, Like the page of some familiar volume, open to thine eye ; Haply from the o'erhanging shadow, thou may'st stretch an unseen hand. Lyra Americana. 24 j To support the wavering steps that print with blood the rugged land. Haply, leaning o'er the pilgrim, all unweeting thou art near. Thou may'st whisper words of warning or of comfort in his ear. Till beyond the border where that brooding mystery bars the sight, Those whom thou hast fondly cherished stand with thee in peace and light. William Cullen Bryant. 246 Lyra Americana. THE DATS OF SIN, H, mournful, mournful time ! I prayed : but sin was there : Sin crept upon my prayer, And made my prayer a crime ! I prayed, and prayed again : But sin was in it still ! It throttled my weak will ; I struggled but in vain. I burned by day and night, I feared that fire of sin — Its covering seemed so thin — Would show to other's sight ! My daily work I did, — I talked of Heaven and Hell, Full often and full well, — But ah ! what woe I hid ! Lyra Americana. 247 It seemed as if my fate Were up : in Satan's mesh — A damned soul in flesh — I lived beyond my date. Christ's life in me seemed lost ! Where was the promise now, Sealed to me when my brow In his blest sign was crossed ? I strove to fly from me ; Always it was the same ; Hell was where'er I came ; God's wrath I could not flee. Such life I loathed to keep, But could I dare to die ? Heaven's walls so hopeless high, And Hell a soundless deep? My heart aye told me well I gave myself away, To be the Devil's prey — By my own hand I fell. I struggled once for all ; God's altar — there I prayed ; And bitter cry I made Behind my closet wall. 248 Lyra Americana. A change began to be ! I felt the Breath of Life ; For Heaven and Hell was strife : I struggled, and was free ! Ah ! now the strife was done : I sought the Flesh and Blood ; I ate salvation's food ; My soul to Christ was won. Robert Lowell. Lyra Americana. 249 THE WAT, CANNOT plainly see the way, So dark the grave is ; but I know If I do truly work and pray, Some good will brighten out of woe. For the same hand that doth unbind The winter winds, sends sweetest showers, And the poor rustic laughs to find His April meadows full of flowers. I said I could not see the way. And yet what need is there to see, More than to do what good I may. And trust the great strength over me ? Why should my spirit pine, and lean From its clay house ; or, restless, bow, Asking the shadows, if they mean To darken always, dim as now ? 11* 250 Lyra Americana. Why should I vainly seek to solve Free will, necessity, the pall ? I feel — I know — that God is love. And knowing this, I know it all. Alice Gary. Lyra Americana. 251 NEARER, Mr GOD, TO THEE, EARER, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee : Even though it be a cross That raiseth me, Still all my song shall be. Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Though like a wanderer. Daylight all gone, Darkness be over me. My rest a stone, Yet in my dreams, I'd be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. There let the way appear Steps up to heaven ; 252 Lyra Americana. All that Thou sendest me In mercy given, Angels to beckon me Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Then with my waking thoughts, Bright with Thy praise. Out of my stony griefs, Bethel I'll raise ; So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Or if on joyful wing. Cleaving the sky. Sun, moon, and stars forgot. Upward I fly. Still all my song shall be. Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Sarah F. Adams. Lyra Americana. 253 ABIDE IN ME, HAT mystic word of Thine, O Sovereign Lord ! Is all too pure, too high, too deep for me ; Weary with striving, and with longing faint, I breathe it back again in prayer to Thee Abide in me — overshadowed by Thy love Each half-formed purpose and dark thought of sin. Quench, ere it rise, each selfish, low desire. And keep my soul as Thine — calm and divine. As some rare perfume in a vase of clay Pervades it with a fragrance not its own — So, when Thou dwellest in a mortal soul. All heaven's own sweetness seems around it thrown. 254 Ly^^ Americana. The soul alone, like a neglected harp, Grows out of tune, and needs that Hand divine ; Dwell Thou within it, tune and touch the chords. Till every note and string shall answer Thine. Abide in me : there have been moments pure, When I have seen Thy face and felt Thy power ; Then evil lost. its grasp, and passion, hushed. Owned the divine enchantment of the hour. These were but seasons beautiful and rare 5 Abide in me — and they shall ever bej I pray Thee now fulfil my earnest prayer. Come and abide in me, and I in Thee. Mrs. Stowe. Lyra Americana. 255 LOOK ALOFT. N the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale MWi Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eyes should grow dim, and thy caution depart, " Look aloft ! " and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow. With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe. Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed, " Look aloft ! " to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eyes. Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly. 256 Lyra Americana. Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, " Look aloft ! " to the sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart, The wife of thy bosom in sorrow depart, " Look aloft ! " from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that soil where affection is ever in bloom. And oh ! when death comes in his terrors, to cast His fears on the future, his pall on the past. In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart. And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft!" and depart. J. Lawrence. Lyra Americana. 257 THE VICrORT OF LIFE, ONCE made search, in hope to find Abiding peace of mind. I toiled for riches — as if these Could bring the spirit ease ! I turned aside to books and lore. Still baffled as before. I tasted then of love and fame, But hungered still the same. I chose the sweetest paths I knew, Where only roses grew. Then fell a voice from out the skies. With message in this wise : " O my disciple ! is it meet That roses tempt thy feet ? 258 Lyra Americana. " Thy Master, even for His head, Had only thorns instead ! " Then, drawn as by a heavenly grace, I left the flowery place, And walked on cutting flints and stones. I said with tears and groans : " O Lord ! my feet, where Thou dost lead. Shall follow though they bleed ! " As then I saw He chose my path For discipline, not wrath, I walked in weakness, till at length I suffered unto strength. Nor ever were my trials done, But straightway new begun. For when I learned to cast disdain Upon some special pain. He gave me sharper strokes to bear. And pierced me to despair. Until, so sorely was I pressed, I broke beneath the test. Lyra Americana. 259 And fell within the Tempter's power. Yet in the evil hour, Bound hand and foot, I cried, " O Lord ! Break Thou the three-fold cord ! " And while my soul was at her prayer, He snatched me from the snare. I then approached the gate of death. Where, struggling for my breath, I smote my coward knees in fear. Aghast to stand so near ! Yet when I shivered in the gloom, Down-gazing in the tomb, " O Lord ! " I cried, " bear Thou my sin. And I will enter in ! " But He by whom my soul was tried Not yet was satisfied. For then he crushed me with a blow Of more than mortal woe. Till bitter death had been relief To my more bitter grief. 26o Lyra Americana. Yet, bleeding, panting in the dust, I knew His judgment just; And, as a lark with broken wing Sometimes has heart to sing, So I, all shattered, still could raise To His dear name the praise ! Henceforth I know a holy prayer To conquer pain and care. For when my struggling flesh grows faint, And murmurs with complaint. My spirit cries. Thy will be done ! And finds the victory won. Theodore Tilton. Lyra Americana. 261 THE RED RIVER VOTJGEUR, UT and in the river is winding The links of its long, red chain, Through belts of dusky pine- land And gusty leagues of plain. Only, at times, a smoke-wreath With the drifting cloud-rack joins, — The smoke of the hunting-lodges Of the wild Assiniboins ! Drearily blows the north wind From the land of ice and snow ; The eyes that look are weary. And heavy the hands that row. And with one foot on the water. And one upon the shore, 262 Lyra Americana. The Angel of Shadow gives warning That day shall be no more. Is it the clang of wild-geese ? Is it the Indian's yell, That lends to the voice of the north wind The tones of a far-ofF bell ? The voyageur smiles as he listens To the sound that grows apace ; Well he knows the vesper ringing Of the bells of St. Boniface. The bells of the Roman Mission, That call from their turrets twain, To the boatmen on the river. To the hunter on the plain ! Even so in our mortal journey The bitter north winds blow, And thus upon life's Red River Our hearts, as oarsmen, row. And when the Angel of Shadow Rests his feet on wave and shore, And our eyes grow dim with watching And our hearts faint at the oar ; Lyra Americana. 263 Happy is he who heareth The signal of his release In the bells of the Holy City, The chimes of eternal peace ! John Greenleaf Whittier. 'vtSSC* 264 Lyra Americana. HOME FOR THE WEARY, HERE is an hour of peaceful rest, To mourning wanderers given ; There is a tear for souls distressed, A balm for every wounded breast : 'Tis found above — in heaven. There is a home for weary souls. By sin and sorrow driven, — When tossed on life's tempestuous shoals. Where storms arise, and ocean rolls, And all is drear — but heaven. There faith lifts up her cheerful eye To brighter prospects given ; And views the tempest passing by. The evening shadows quickly fly. And all serene — in heaven. Lyra Americana. 265 There fragrant flowers immortal bloom, And joys supreme are given ; There rays divine disperse the gloom ; Beyond the confines of the tomb Appears the dawn of heaven ! W. B. Tappan. 12 266 Lyra Americana. BOW, ANGELS, FROM TOUR GLORI- OUS STATE, O W, angels, from your glorious state. If e'er on earth you trod, And lead me through the golden gate Of prayer, unto my God. I long to gather from the Word The meaning full and clear, To build unto my gracious Lord A tabernacle here. Against my heart the tempests beat, The snows are falling chill, When shall I hear the voice so sweet. Commanding, Peace, be still ! The angels said, God giveth you His love — what more is ours ? Even as the cisterns of the dew O'erflow upon the flowers, Lyra Americana. 267 His grace descends ; and, as of old, He walks with men apart, Keeping the promise, as foretold. With all the pure in heart. Alice Gary. 268 Lyra Americana. THE PURER PATH, O bird-song floated down the hill, The tangled bank below was still ; No rustle from the birchen stem, No ripple from the water's hem. The dusk of twilight round us grew, We felt the falling of the dew \ Far from us, ere the day was done. The wooded hills shut out the sun. But on the river's farther side We saw the hill-tops glorified, — A tender glow, exceeding fair, A dream of day without its glare. With us the damp, the chill, the gloom : With them the sunset's rosy bloom ; Lyra Americana. 269 While dark, through willowy vistas seen, The river rolled in shade between. From out the darkness where we trod We gazed upon the hills of God, Whose light seemed not of moon or sun. We spake not, but our thought was one. We paused as if from that bright shore Beckoned our dear ones gone before ; And stilled our beating hearts to hear The voices lost to mortal ear ! Sudden our pathway turned from night j The hills swung open to the light j Through their green gates the sunshine showed, A long, slant splendour downward flowed. Down glade and glen and bank it rolled ; It bridged the shaded stream with gold ; And, borne on piers of mist, allied The shadowy with the sunlit side ! " So," prayed we, " when our feet draw near The river, dark with mortal fear, 270 Lyra Americana. " And the night cometh chill with dew, O Father ! — let Thy light break through ! " So let the hills of doubt divide, So bridge with faith the sunless tide ! " So let the eyes that fail on earth On Thy eternal hills look forth ; " And in Thy beckoning angels know The dear ones whom we loved below ! " John Greenleaf Whittier. Lyra Americana. 271 LIGHT AND LOVE. IGHT waits for us in heaven : Inspiring thought ! That when the darkness all is overpast, The beauty which the Lamb of God has bought Shall flow about our saved souls at last, And wrap them from all night-time and all woe : The Spirit and the Word assure us so. Love lives for us in heaven : Oh, not so sweet Is the May dew which the mountain flowers inclose, Nor golden raining of the winnowed wheat. Nor blushing out of the brown earth, of rose, Or whitest lily, as, beyond time's wars. The silvery raising of these two twin stars ' Alice Gary. 272 Lyra Americana. IMMORTALITY, [O think for aye ; to breathe immortal breath ; And know nor hope, nor fear, of ending death ; To see the myriad worlds that round us roll Wax old and perish, while the steadfast soul Stands fresh and moveless in her sphere of thought ; O God, omnipotent ! who in me wrought This conscious world, whose ever-growing orb, When the dead Past shall all in time absorb. Will be but as begun, — O, of Thine own. Give of the holy light that veils Thy throne. That darkness be not mine, to take my place. Beyond the reach of light, a blot in space ! So may this wondrous Life, from sin made free. Reflect Thy love for aye, and to Thy glory be. Washington Allston. Lyra Americana. 273 O ALL TE WORKS OF THE LORD, BLESS TE THE LORD, THOU, that once on Horeb stood Revealed within each burning tree, To-day, as well, in each green wood, Be seen by hearts that yearn for Thee. Each shining leaf is bright with God, Each bough, a prophet's " budding rod," Each by Thy flaming sun illumed. Yet each, like Horeb's, unconsumed. O Thou, whose hand poured Jordan's stream, Whose Angel-dove hung o'er its wave. To hallow with a heavenly gleam The Son whose love a world would save j — Bring from the waters at our side Some whisper, gentle as their tide. Saying, like Christ on Galilee — That holier lake, — Peace, Peace to thee ! 12* 274 Lyra Americana. We pray, O Lord, who touched the mount. We pray through Him who stilled the sea,— May every outward sight a fount Of inward life and courage be. The radiant bush, the white-winged dove. The fire of faith, the peace of love. Uplift our souls, and urge them on To take the cross, to wear the crown. F. D. Huntington. Lyra Americana. 275 CORRESPONDENCES. LL things in nature are beautiful types to the soul that reads them ; Nothing exists upon earth, but for unspeakable ends, Every object that speaks to the senses was meant for the spirit 5 Nature is but a scroll ; God's handwriting there- on. Ages ago when man was pure, ere the flood overwhelmed him. While in the image of God every soul yet lived. Every thing stood as a letter or word of a lan- guage familiar. Telling of truths which now only the angels can read. Lost to man was the key of those sacred hiero- glyphics. Stolen away by sin, till by heaven restored. 276 Lyra Americana. Now with infinite pains we here and there spell out a letter, Here and there will the sense feebly shine through the dark. When we perceive the light that breaks through the visible symbol, What exultation is ours! We the discovery have made ! Yet is the meaning the same as when Adam lived sinless in Eden, Only long hidden it slept, and now again is revealed. Man unconsciously uses figures of speech every moment, Little dreaming the cause why to such terms he is prone. Little dreaming that every thing here has its own correspondence Folded within its form, as in the body the soul. Gleams of the mystery fall on us still, though much is forgotten. And though our commonest speech, illumine the path of our thoughts. Thus doth the lordly sun shine forth a type of God-head ; Wisdom and love the beams that stream on a darkened world. Lyra Americana. 277 Thus do the sparkling waters flow, giving joy to the desert, And the fountain of life opens itself to the thirst. Thus doth the word of God distil like the rain and the dew-drops ; Thus doth the warm wind breathe like to the Spirit of God ; And the green grass and the flowers are signs of the regeneration. O Thou Spirit of Truth, visit our minds once more ; Give us to read in letters of light the language celestial. Written all over the earth, written all over the sky — Thus may we bring our hearts once more to know our Creator, Seeing in all things around, types of the Infinite Mind. Christopher P. Cranch. 278 Lyra Americana. THE FOUNT J IN, ^EEP within a quiet valley Burst a fountain forth to light ; Burst, and sprang instinctive up- ward — For its source was on the height. But its bright and eager waters Gained not far their upward track j Bonds invisible detained them, And they fell exhausted back ! On that fountain's crystal margin Dreamily I sat reclined. Listened to the fountain's music, Wished I might its chain unbind ! Thought, though hands unseen extending Still drew back its silver rain. Summer suns would soon release it — Soon as cloud 'twould mount again ! ***** Lyra Americana. 279 In my bosom's quiet valley Bursts the fount of life its sod ; Bursts, and springs instinctive upward — For its lofty source is God ! But that striving spirit-fountain Gains not far its upward track ; Bonds invisible detain it — Oft it sinks exhausted back ! On that fountain's crystal margin Sits a spirit, still-reclined ! Radiant, now, with silver pinion — But a soul, from earth refined ! Still that gentle spirit watches, Waits till mine shall rend its chain ; While its pinion, half-unfolding. Lures my soul the height to gain ! Richard Storrs Willis. 28o Lyra Americana. THE INDIAN SUMMER. HE smile of summer's golden brow Into a deepening frown has passed ; I hear stern winter's coming now Muttered upon the sullen blast : The leaves that danced in careless glee Are dropping with each harsher breath ; And on each quivering cheek I see Glisten the hectic bloom of death. Yet o'er this autumn landscape sad Has crept unseen a mellower day ; November's scowHng eye is glad With all the kindling fire of May. Peeps a stray bluebird from his nook, His half-forgotten tune to sing ; And the green alder by the brook Smiles, as if dreaming of the spring. Lyra Americana. 281 I watch, in this long twilight-hush, Lake, woodland bathed in soft repose, And yonder hill, whose burning blush Beneath the sun's fond kisses glows. A trance of joy o'er earth and air ! A Sabbath eve of holy bliss, That prophecies a morrow, fair As is the memory of this. And now, on winged fancies bright, As the first wren his exile leaves, I build my nest of brooding thought Beneath the well-remembered eaves. Sweet season ! in thy happy face. Thou summer's lingering, orphan child ! The image of the past I trace. The joy that out of sorrow smiled. I see above me hang the clouds. Long darkling o'er the early years ; I think of loves the grave enshrouds ; Of eyes oft wet with bitter tears : Rose-buds of youth, whose petals white Opened dew-gemmed ; — but ah ! how brief That morning dream ! the frost of night Palsied so soon the new-born leaf. Fade, fade away, ye mists of pain! I stand above my silent dead j 282 Lyra Americana. Thro' glistening tear-drops of the rain The sunbeam gilds the grassy bed : And see ! where one white blossom lies, Nestling amidst the mosses deep, And whispers with its starry eyes ; — God giveth His beloved sleep. O hallowed, healing eventide ! O mild-eyed loiterer of the year ! Thou goest, but not with thee glide These kindly hopes that linger here. Still whisper, as thy foot departs. Soft in the gloaming of the West, The after-sunshine of our hearts. The Indian Summer of the breast. E. A. Washburn. Lyra Americana. 283 HYMN TO NIGHT, {Suggested by the bas-relief of Thorwaldsen,) •ES ! bear them to their rest ; The rosy babe, tired with the glare of day, The prattler, fallen asleep e'en in his play ; Clasp them to thy soft breast, O Night ; Bless them in dreams with a deep-hushed delight. Yet must they wake again. Wake soon to all the bitterness of life. The pang of sorrow, the temptation strife, Ay, to the conscience pain : O Night, Canst thou not take with them a longer flight? 284 Lyra Americana. Canst thou not bear them far E'en now, all innocent, before they know The taint of sin, its consequence of woe, The world's distracting jar, O Night, To some ethereal, holier, happier height ? Canst thou not bear them up, Through starlit skies, far from this planet dim And sorrowful, e'en while they sleep, to Him Who drank for us the cup, O Night, The cup of wrath, for hearts in faith contrite ? To Him, for them who slept A babe all lowly on his mother's knee. And from that hour to cross-crowned Calvary, In all our sorrows wept, O Night, That on our souls might dawn Heaven's cheer- ing light ? Go, lay their little heads Close to that human heart, with love divine Deep-beating, while His arms immortal twine Around them, as He sheds, O Night, On them a brother's grace of God's own bound- less might. Lyra Americana. 285 Let them immortal wake Among the deathless flowers of Paradise ; Where angel songs of welcome with surprise This their last sleep may break, O Night, And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite. There can come no sorrow ; The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears. For, ever young, through Heaven's eternal years. In one unfading morrow, O Night, Nor sin, nor age, nor pain, their cherub beauty blight. Would we could sleep as they. So stainless — and so calm — at rest with Thee, — And only wake in immortality ! Bear us with them away, O Night, To that ethereal, holier, happier height ! George W. Bethune. 286 Lyra Americana. THE HOURS. I. A.M. NE ! Lord, whose daily mercies number My waking hours and hours of slumber, Launched on life's everlasting sea, I ask the gales that waft to Thee ! II. Two ! 'Tis the watcher's loneliest hour ; The realm of night has darkest power : O Father, let Thine angels keep Kind watches o'er a world asleep ! III. Three ! Ere the dawn's first infant breath, Floats o'er the vales the chill of death ; : Lyra Americana 287 Oh, drive these murky shades afar, And come, thou bright and morning Star ! IV. Four ! And the early laborer wakes ; Gray o'er the hills the day-dawn breaks ; Oh, warm my heart, celestial ray. And shine, and mount, till all be day ! V. Five ! And beside their peaceful beds Bow golden locks and hoary heads j And blessings load the balmy air. And strew the way of praise and prayer. VI. Six ! Night is past, and day is here ; Its voices murmur to my ear — " Twelve hours the great Taskmaster gave ; Work, and be mindful of thy grave ! " VII. Seven ! Give this day our daily bread ! 'Tis Thou the countless board hast spread Where households meet, and kneel, and part, For hall and chamber, field and mart. 288 Lyra Americana. VIII. Eight ! And the hours are swift of flight, Where love, and home, and young delight. And hope, and cheerful labour, leave No spectres for the distant eve. IX. Nine ! Blessings, blessings on the sound Of humble school-bells, clashing round ! The merry sowers forth they ring, And gray-haired men the sheaves shall bring. X. Ten ! Here we till no Eden's soil ; All worthy gain is wrung by toil : The world's vast toil, O Father, guide ! Thy kingdom first, then all beside ! XI. Eleven ! And morn has sped so soon ; Haste, or the journey stays till noon : Woe, if the joyous noonday sun Look down, and naught be yet begun ! XII. Twelve ! Heaven puts on its dazzling robe, And festal pomp girds round the globe ; Lyra Americana. 289 For God is love, and life, and light, And joy, and majesty, and right. I. P.M. One ! One step downward ! Oh, be mine The faithful morning's rich decline. And faith's calm vision clear and clearer. As hope's bright shore grows near and nearer ! II. Two ! Victory hovering in the West, The soldier craves not soon to rest; With wiser heart and cooler nerve. Content to suffer and to serve. III. Three ! Shadowing clouds course o'er the plain, And gentle breezes curl the main ; And sober toil is half repose. While day sinks lovelier than it rose. IV. Four ! If along life's dusty street A moment pause my wayworn feet, May some kind angel stoop and smile. And whisper sweet, " A little while ! " 13 290 Lyra Americana. V. Five ! The long shadows of the hills, A pensive pleasing music fills, Where Nature, with all sounds of peace, Gives the kind signal of release. VI. Six ! And the twelve hours' toil is past ! O Father, bring us home at last ! Home, as at eve we love to meet ; No clouded eye, no vacant seat ! VII. Seven ! And as star by star appears. All heaven the desert wanderer cheers. Maps the dark pathway o'er the billow. And smiles on childhood's weary pillow. VIII. Eight ! Now the moon, with silver shield, Pale splendour pours o'er wave and field : Oh thus, when brighter joys depart. Let soothing peace still fold my heart ! IX. Nine ! And our curfew ! Bending low, " Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; " Lyra Americana. 291 And Thou, whose love the long day gave. Still pardon, succour, guide, and save ! Ten ! Who would loiter in the dance. Where pleasure hangs on folly's glance. While night sits throned in starry blaze. And tells us more than all our days ? XI. Eleven ! The sentry walks the camp ; The student lingers o'er the lamp : The world may sleep, but I would wake. And watch, and toil, for love's sweet sake. XII. Twelve ! Echoing through the midnight halls, The knell of time to judgment calls : O, Saviour, write my daily story. Till I shall sleep, and wake in glory ! Bishop Burgess. 292 Lyra Americana. PRATER FOR THE NEW TEAR. ORD ! who, o'erlooking sin and sin. Still lengthen'st out my days. Let me this new-born year begin With love, and prayer, and praise ! As Thou, through all the chequered past, Hast safely kept my way. Secure on Thee, until the last, I'll lean from day to day. Whate'er the mercies Thou shalt shower, Grace be the chiefest gift ! And heavenward, with its sovereign power, My grovelling spirit lift ! And, when these numbered years no more Shall mark my fleeting race. Provide, upon the eternal shore. Even for me^ a place. Bishop Eastburn. Lyra Americana. 293 MISERERE DOMINE, HOU, who lookest with pitying eye From Thy radiant home on high, On the Spirit tempest-tost, Wretched, weary, wandering, lost •, Ever ready help, to give. And entreating, " Look and Live ! " By that love exceeding thought. Which from Heaven the Saviour brought ; By that mercy which could dare Death to save us from despair. Lowly bending at Thy feet. We adore, implore, entreat. Lifting heart and voice to Thee— Miserere Domine ! With the vain and giddy throng, Father ! we have wandered long. Eager from Thy paths to stray. Chosen the forbidden way ; 294 Lyra Americana. Heedless of the light within, Hurried on from sin to sin. And with scoffers madly trod On the mercy of our God ! Now to where Thine altars burn, Penitently we return : Though forgotten, Thou hast not To be merciful forgot ; Hear our suppliant cries to Thee — Miserere Domtne ! From the burden of our grief Who but Thou, can give relief? Who can pour salvation's light On the darkness of our night ? Bowed our load of sin beneath. Who redeem our souls from death ? If in man we put our trust. Scattered are our hopes like dust ! Smitten by Thy chastening rod, Lo ! we cry to Thee, our God ! From the perils of our path. From the terrors of Thy wrath. Save us, when we look to Thee — Miserere Domtne ! Where the pastures greenly grow, Where the waters gently flow. Lyra Americana. 295 And beneath the sheltering Rock, With the Shepherd rests the flock — Oh, let us be gathered there, Under Thy paternal care ; Love and labour, and rejoice With the people of thy choice. Till the toils of life are done. Till the fight is fought and won, And the crown with heavenly glow Sparkles on the victor's brow ! Hear the prayer we lift to Thee, Miserere Domine ! William H. Burleigh, ill ■I iili >iK>ir;>!«>,ii>sjwiw •I 1 1