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LYRA SACRA AMERICANA: 
 
 OR, 
 
 GEMS 
 
 .MERICAN SACRED POETRY. 
 
 / 
 
 A SELECTED AND ARRANGED, WITH NOTES AND 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES DEXTER CLEVELAND. 
 
 > » 
 AUTHOR OF THE COMPENDIUMS OF ENGLISH, AMERICAN, 
 AND CLASSICAL LITERATURE ; CONCORDANCE 
 TO MILTON'S POETRY, ETC. 
 
 ••::£VVASi^ 
 
 NEW YORK: &/ 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER AND COMPANY. 
 
 LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, SON, AND MARSTON. 
 1868. 
 
.]?4-C<. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 
 
 Charles Dexter Cleveland, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States 
 for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IFTER a residence of some years in Great 
 Britain/ I have been no little surprised to 
 
 U find, from time to time, in conversation with 
 many of its best informed people and Christian scholars, 
 how little is generally known of the wealth that exists 
 in American Sacred Lyric Poetry. Even Sir Roundell 
 Palmer, in his admirable " Book of Praise," has but 
 seven hymns from American writers ; ^ as I feel confi- 
 dent that had he known of some presented in this 
 collection, they would have found an honoured place 
 in his own.^ I have therefore thought that it would 
 
 ^ Three of which (1861-64), I passed at Cardiff as United 
 States Consul. 
 
 2 For we cannot, I think, fairly call Mrs. S. F. Adams, the 
 author of that beautiful hymn, 
 
 *' Nearer, my God, to Thee," 
 an American. Gladly would I claim her if I honestly could, 
 but her living a short time in our country does not make her 
 ' one of our writers. 
 
 "^ ^ Dean Alford, in his recently published hymn-book, " The 
 Year Book of Praise,'^ has two or three more American 
 hymns. 
 
iv PREFACE. 
 
 be rendering a not unacceptable service to the lovers 
 of sacred song on this side of the Atlantic to prepare a 
 work upon American hymns that would, as I should 
 hope, do something like justice to the subject, and 
 show to the mother-country a not unworthy collection 
 of the daughter's productions in this most interesting 
 and increasingly valued department of literature. I 
 am aware, of course, that two or three works of a some- 
 what similar character have been published on the 
 other side of the Atlantic, and that the most recent 
 one — the '' Lyra Americana " of the Eev. George T. 
 Ryder, D.D. — has been in effect republished by the 
 London Religious Tract Society. I say in effect, for 
 though the compiler in his preface says of Dr. Ryder's 
 volume that " not very much beyond the title has been 
 retained," the real fact is, that of its one hundred and 
 twenty-four selections, eighty-one, or two thirds 
 (wanting one) are to be found in the American 
 volume.^ 
 
 But whatever works may have been published in 
 either country upon this subject, the appearance of 
 this volume shows that I think there is room for 
 another. It is true that a majority of the pieces here 
 presented have appeared in print before, chiefly scattered 
 here and there in various hymn-books ; but it is also 
 true that many of them are now published for the first 
 
 » Dr. Ryder's book has one hundred and twenty-five 
 selections. 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 time, the manuscripts having been kindly given to 
 the editor bj the authors for this purpose. Some 
 hymns, too, are here restored to their original, unaltered 
 text ; such, for instance, as that one of unsurpassed 
 beauty by the Eev. Dr. Muhlenburg, beginning 
 " I would not live alway," — 
 
 which, as far as I have seen, has always been printed 
 with various alterations and abridgments : it will here, 
 however, be found entire, as given to me by the author 
 in his own hand. 
 
 As to the arrangement, it will at once be seen that 
 it is alphabetical, both as to authors and hymns, and 
 that the hymns of each author are together. This, I 
 think, has rather the advantage over an arrangement 
 according to subjects, especially if there be a full index 
 of subjects appended. It is pleasant to see the products 
 of each individual mind side by side, that its several 
 productions may be more readily compared, and that 
 the authors themselves may be the better compared, 
 the one with the other. The chronological arrangement, 
 however, I decidedly prefer, where there is a chro- 
 nology of any extent, that the hymnal products of 
 different periods may be seen together. But all our 
 American hymns of any value are of very recent date, 
 hardly any extending beyond fifty years. The early 
 colonists had much else to do of greater importance and 
 necessity to themselves than to write poetry of any 
 kind. An unsubdued wilderness was before them, and 
 the urgency of their physical wants prevented, to any 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 great extent, the cultivation of letters : and during the 
 period of the Kevolution, and for many years subse- 
 quent, vital questions of a political character pertaining 
 to the formation and government of the states and of 
 the nation, engrossed most of their attention ; so that 
 there was really some truth, if not unkindness, in the 
 sneer of the Edinburgh Eeview, fifty years ago, " ^Tio 
 reads an American book ? " ^ But so rapid has been 
 our progress in every department of literature and 
 science, that now the reverse question may be asked, 
 with no little pride, on the other side of the Atlantic, 
 '^ Who does NOT read American books ? " 
 
 Although such an unprecedented number of hymn- 
 books and works on hymnology have been published 
 since 1860, that this might, not inappropriately, be 
 called the hymnological decade of the nineteenth century, 
 yet I can make no apology for adding another to the 
 number, as I do not think that this department of 
 literature has even yet received the consideration and 
 honour it deserves. When man's higher nature and 
 higher wants are considered, there is no literary subject 
 that has pre-eminence over it, if there be any that 
 equals it in true value ; for no one is so sure of a 
 
 LASTING AS W^LL AS LOVING BEMEMBRANCE AS 
 THE AUTHOR OF A GOOD HYMN. WattS, Wcslcy, 
 
 Doddridge, Toplady, Cowper and Lyte will live in the 
 affections of millions, when others of far greater learning, 
 
 ^ Vol. XXXI. for December, 1818. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 and of much higher intellectual rank in their day, will 
 be utterly forgotten. In the new edition ^ of ^^ The 
 Men of the Time/' pubHshed by Messrs. Eoutledge 
 and Sons, there are about three thousand names ; while 
 the names of Horatius Eonar and Kay Palmer are 
 omitted. But I feel as confident as I can be of any 
 future event, that of these three thousand names, by 
 far the greater part will have utterly faded away from 
 the minds of men, never to be recalled, when the names 
 of the authors of 
 
 " I heard the voice of Jesus say,"— 
 and 
 
 *' My faith looks up to Thee,"— 
 
 will be cherished and loved, wherever there are hearts 
 to sing in the English tongue the praises of the 
 Eedeemer. 
 
 I trust that the few ^^ Notes" and short ^^Biogra- 
 phical Sketches " will give additional interest to the 
 hymns. When we are struck with the beauty of a 
 piece, it gives us increased pleasure to know what were 
 the circumstances, if any, which called it forth.^ I 
 only regret that for the want of fuller materials these 
 " Notes '' should be so meagre. So also when we are 
 pleased with an author's productions, we like to know 
 when and where he lived, and what was his chief life- 
 
 ' The Seventh, 1868. 
 
 ^ See the hymn, " Stand up for Jesus." 
 
viii PREFACE, 
 
 work. But the '' Sketches " I have in almost all cases 
 designedly made short : a few, however, are so from 
 the want of more and better information. 
 
 In conclusion I would take this opportunity to say 
 to my many friends who know that six or seven years 
 ago I began the preparation of a larger and more 
 general work upon the subject of Hymnology, — differing 
 in its plan from anything that has hitherto appeared, — 
 that impaired health has been the chief reason why I 
 have been prevented from completing it. Still, it is 
 in an advanced stage of preparation, and I fondly 
 trust that before the close of another year I shall be 
 enabled to have ready for the press the work which has 
 so long engrossed no small portion of my thoughts, 
 and for the completion of which I have, for some time, 
 been increasingly solicitous. 
 
 C. D. C. 
 
 London, July, 1868. 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 While the Hymns were going through the press, I was in Heidelberg, 
 Germany, and consequently could not read the proof-sheets without great 
 inconvenience and delay. I have found but the two following errors, 
 and those in the names of the authors : — 
 
 For P. W. Higginson, read T. W. Higginson. 
 
 For Thomas Mackellan, read Thomas Mackellar. 
 
 I have also found the hymn " O Lord, Thy work revive," to be dupli- 
 cated, and assigned to Mrs. Brown ; it is Mr. Hastings', 
 
LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 THE HOUE- GLASS. 
 
 I LAS ! how swift the moments flj ! 
 How flash the hours along ! 
 Scarce here, jet gone already bv,— 
 The burden of a song ; 
 See childhood, youth, and manhood pass. 
 
 And age with furrow'd brow ; 
 Time tvas—time shall 5^_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 noiu ? In realms above, 
 
 With God's atoning Lamb, 
 In regions of eternal love. 
 
 Where sits enthroned '' I AM." 
 
LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Then, Pilgrim, let thy joys and tears 
 
 On Time no longer lean ; 
 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 hliss that Time denies, 
 
 Eternity shall give. 
 
 John Quincy Adams, 
 
 n, 
 SABBATH MORNraG. 
 
 HAEK ! 'tis the holy temple's hell, — 
 The voice that summons me to prayer : 
 My heart, each roving fancy quell ; 
 Come, to the house of God repair. 
 
 There, while in unison suhlime, 
 Souls to the throne of God ascend, 
 
 Let no unhallow'd child of time 
 
 Profane pollutions with them blend. 
 
 How for thy wants canst thou implore, 
 Crave for thy frailties pardon free. 
 
 Of praise the votive tribute pour. 
 
 Or bend, in thanks, the grateful knee, — 
 
JAMES W. ALEXANDER. 
 
 If, from tbe awful King of kings, 
 Each bauble lures thy soul astray ; 
 
 If to this dust of earth it clings, 
 
 And, fickle, flies from heaven away ? 
 
 Pure as the blessed seraph's vow. 
 Oh, let the sacred concert rise ; 
 
 Intent with humble rapture bow, 
 Adore the Euler of the skies. 
 
 Bid earth-born atoms all depart ; 
 
 Within thyself collected, fall ; 
 And give one day, rebellious heart. 
 
 Unsullied to the Lord of all. 
 
 John Quincy Adams, 
 
 ni. 
 CALVARY. 
 
 O SACRED HEAD, now wounded, 
 With grief and shame weigh'd down, 
 O sacred brow, surrounded 
 
 With thorns, thine only crown ! 
 Once on a throne of glory, 
 
 Adorn'd with ligbt divine, 
 Now all despised and gory, 
 I joy to call Thee mine. 
 
LYEA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 On me, as Thou art dying, 
 
 Oh, turn Thy pitying eye ! 
 To Thee for mercy crying, 
 
 Before Thy cross I lie : 
 Lo ! here I fall, my Saviour ! 
 
 'Tis I deserve Thy place ; 
 Look on me with Thy favour, 
 
 Vouchsafe to me Thy grace ! 
 
 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 ; 
 Beside Thy cross expiring 
 
 I'd breathe my soul to Thee. 
 
 What language can I borrow 
 
 To thank Thee, dearest Friend, 
 For all Thy dying sorrow. 
 
 Of all my woes the end ? 
 Oh, can I leave Thee ever? 
 
 Then do not Thou leave me : 
 Lord, let me never, never 
 
 Outlive my love to Thee. 
 
 Be near me when I'm dying ; 
 Oh, show Thy cross to me ; 
 
LEONARD BACGN. 
 
 And to my succour flying, 
 
 Come, Lord, and set me free : 
 
 These eyes, new faith receiving, 
 From thee shall never move ; 
 
 For he who dies believing 
 Dies safely in Thy love. 
 
 James W. Alexander. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE PILGKIM FATHERS. 
 
 OGOD, beneath Thy guiding hand. 
 Our exiled fathers cross'd the sea ; 
 And when they trod the wintry strand, 
 
 With prayer and psalm they worshipp'd Thee. 
 
 Thou heard'st, well pleased, the song, the prayer, 
 Thy blessing came ; — and still its power 
 
 Shall onward through all ages bear 
 The memory of that holy hour. 
 
 Laws, freedom, truth, and faith in God 
 Came with those exiles o'er the waves ; 
 
 And where their pilgrim feet have trod, 
 The God they trusted guards their graves. 
 
 And here Thy name, O God of love. 
 Their children's children shall adore, 
 
 Till these eternal hills remove. 
 
 And Spring adorns the earth no more. 
 
 Leonard Bacon. 
 
LYE A SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 DEATH OF A MISSIOXAEY. 
 
 WEEP not for the saint that ascends 
 To partake of the jojs of the sky; 
 Weep not for the seraph that bends 
 With the worshipping chorus on high. 
 
 Weep not for the spirit now crown'd 
 With the garland to martyrdom given, 
 
 Oh, weep not for him ; — he has found 
 His reward and his refuge in heaven. 
 
 But weep for their sorrows who stand 
 And lament o'er the dead b}^ his grave ; 
 
 Who sigh when they muse on the land 
 Of their home far away o'er the wave. 
 
 And weep for the nations that dwell 
 
 Where the light of the truth never shone, 
 
 Where anthems of praise never swell, 
 And the love of the Lamb is unknown. 
 
 Leonard Bacon. 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE, 7 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE DEPARTING MISSIONARY. 
 
 FAEEWELL to thee, Brother ! We meet but to 
 part, 
 And sorrow is struggling with joj in each heart ; 
 There is grief — but there's hope, all its anguish to quell ; 
 The Master goes with thee — Farewell ! oh, farewell ! 
 
 Farewell ! Thou art leaving the home of thy youth. 
 The friends of thy God, and the temples of truth, 
 For the land where is heard no sweet Sabbath bell ; 
 Yet the Master goes with thee — Farewell ! oh, farewell ! 
 
 Farewell ! For thou treadest the path that He trod ; 
 His God is thy Father, His Father thy God ; 
 And if ever with doub tings thy bosom shall swell, 
 Remember He's with thee — Farewell! oh, farewell ! 
 
 Farewell ! and God speed thee, glad tidings to bear, 
 To the desolate isles in their night of despair ; 
 On the sea, on the shore, all the promises tell. 
 His wings shall enfold thee — Farewell ! oh, farewell ! 
 
 Farewell ! but in spirit we often shall meet 
 (Though the ocean divide us) at one mercy-seat, 
 And above ne'er to part, but for ever to dwell 
 With the Master in glory — till then, oh, farewell ! 
 
 George W, Bethune. 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 VII. 
 
 IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE. 
 
 IT is not death to die, 
 To leave this weary road, 
 And, midst the brotherhood on high, 
 To be at home with God. 
 
 It is not death to close 
 
 The eye long dimm'd by tears, 
 And wake, in glorious repose 
 
 To spend eternal years. 
 
 It is not death to bear 
 
 The wrench that sets us free 
 From dungeon-chains, to breathe the air 
 
 Of boundless liberty. 
 
 It is not death to fling 
 
 Aside this sinful dust, 
 And rise on strong, exulting wing, 
 
 To live among the just. 
 
 Jesus, thou Prince of Life, 
 
 Thy chosen cannot die ! 
 Like Thee, they conquer in the strife. 
 
 To reign with Thee on high. 
 
 George W. Bethune. 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 
 
 VIII. 
 CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 JOY 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 how ; 
 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 ! 
 
 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 holv mom. 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Son of Mary, (blessed mother !) 
 
 Thy love we claim ; 
 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 di^ane ; 
 Watchful nights and weary morrows, 
 
 Brother, were Thine : 
 By Thy fight with strong temptation, 
 By Thy cup of tribulation. 
 Oh ! thou Grod of our salvation, 
 
 With mercy shine ! 
 
 In Thy holy footsteps treading, 
 Guide, lest we stray ; 
 
 From Thy word of promise shedding 
 Light on our way ; 
 
 Xever leave us nor forsake us. 
 
 Like Thj^self in mercy make us, 
 
 And at last to glory take us, 
 Jesus, we pray. 
 
 George W. Bethune. 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 
 
 IX. 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 LIGHT of the immortal Father's glorj, 
 Joyous, sacred, heavenly, blest, 
 Jesus Christ, we bow before thee. 
 As the sunlight leaves the west. 
 We give Thee homage, grateful, lowly, 
 
 That the evening light we see, 
 Father, Son, and Spirit Holy, 
 Holy, Holy, Holy Three. 
 
 Worthy art Thou worlds unending, 
 
 Son of God, the life and light. 
 To receive a praise transcending 
 
 All created worth and might ; 
 Soon the star, now shining o'er us. 
 
 All the earth shall joyful see ; 
 And all tongues shall swell the chorus : 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy Three. 
 
 George W. Bethune. 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 LIVE TO DO GOOD. 
 
 LIVE to do good; but not with thought to win 
 From man return of any kindness done ; 
 Remember Him who died on cross for sin, 
 The merciful, the meek, rejected One ; 
 When He was slain for crime of doing good, 
 Canst thou expect return of gratitude ? 
 
 Do good to all ; but while thou servest best. 
 And at thy greatest cost, nerve thee to bear, 
 
 When thine own heart with anguish is opprest, 
 The cruel taunt, the cold averted air. 
 
 From lips which thou hast taught in hope to pray, 
 
 And eyes whose sorrows thou hast wiped away. 
 
 Still do thou good ; but for His holy sake 
 Who died for thine ; fixing thy purpose ever 
 
 High as His throne no wrath of man can shake ; 
 So shall He own thy generous endeavour, 
 
 And take thee to His conqueror's glory up. 
 
 When thou hast shared the Saviour's bitter cup. 
 
 Do nought but good ; for such the noble strife 
 Of viriue is, — 'gainst wrong to venture love, 
 
 And for thy foe devote a brother's life. 
 Content to >vait the recompense above ; 
 
 Brave for the truth, to fiercest insult meek. 
 
 In mercy strong, ii vengeance only weak. 
 
 George W, Bethune. 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 13 
 
 XI. 
 
 CHRIST WASHING THE DISCIPLES' FEET. 
 
 O 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 impending, 
 When Thou must hang in anguish on the tree ; 
 
 Yet, as from the beginning, to the ending 
 
 Of Thy sad life, Thine own are dear to Thee, — • 
 
 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 lowl^ love ; 
 
 With humblest service all Thy saints befriending, 
 Until I serve before Thy throne above — 
 
 Yes ! serving e'er my foes, for Thou didst seek 
 
 The feet of Judas in Thy sernce meek. 
 
14 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Daily mj pilgrim feet, as homeward wending 
 My weary way, are sadly stain'd with sin ; 
 
 Daily do Thou, Thy precious grace expending, 
 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 festi\dty. 
 
 O blessed name of Servant ! comprehending 
 Man's highest honour in his humblest name : 
 
 For Thou, God's Christ, that office recommending, 
 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. 
 
 xn. 
 PRAYER FOR THE SPIRIT. 
 
 OF OR the happy hour 
 AVhen Grod will hear our cry. 
 And send with a reviving power 
 His Spirit from on high. 
 
 We meet, we sing, we pray. 
 
 We listen to the Word, 
 In vain — we see no cheering ray, 
 
 No cheerinof ^oice is heard. 
 
GEORGE W, BETHUNE. 15 
 
 Our prayers are faint and dull, 
 
 And languid all our songs, 
 Where once with joy our hearts were full, 
 
 And rapture tuned our tongues. 
 
 While many crowd Thy house, 
 
 How few around Thy board 
 Meet to record their solemn vows. 
 
 And bless Thee as their Lord ? 
 
 Thou, Thou alone canst give 
 
 Thy Gospel sure success. 
 And bid the dying sinner live 
 
 Anew in holiness. 
 
 Come with Thy power divine, 
 
 Spirit of life and love ; 
 Then shall our people all be Thine, 
 
 Our church like that above. 
 
 George W. Bethune. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 HYMN FOR EESURRECTION DAY. 
 
 O JESUS, when I think of Thee, 
 Thy manger, cross, and throne, 
 My spirit trusts exultingly 
 In Thee, and Thee alone. 
 
1 6 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 I see Thee in Thy weakness first ; 
 
 Then, glorious from Thy shame, 
 I see Thee death's strong fetters burst, 
 
 And reach heaven's mightiest name. 
 
 For me thou didst become a man, 
 
 For me didst weep and die, 
 For me achieve Thy wondrous plan. 
 
 For me ascend on high. 
 
 O let me share Thy holy birth. 
 
 Thy faith. Thy death to sin, 
 And, strong amidst the toils of earth. 
 
 My heavenly life begin. 
 
 Then shall I know what means the strain 
 
 Triumphant of Saint Paul ; 
 '^ To live is Christ's, to die is gain ! 
 
 Christ is my all in all ! " 
 
 George W. Bethune. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 HYMN FOR EASTEE. 
 
 "TniS He ! 'tis He, I know him now, 
 X By the red scars upon His brow, 
 His wounded hands, and feet, and side. 
 My Lord ! my God ! the Crucified ! 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 17 
 
 Those hands have rolFd the stone away ; 
 Those feet have trod the path to -day ; 
 And round that brow triumphant shine 
 The rays of majesty divine. 
 
 O, from those hands uphfted, shed 
 Thy blessing on my fainting head ; 
 And, as I clasp those feet, impart 
 The love that gush'd from out Thy heart ! 
 
 Thy death upon the cross be mine, 
 My life from mortal sin be Thine, 
 And mine the way Thy feet have trod. 
 To reign in heaven with Thee, my God. 
 
 George W. Bethune. 
 
 XV. 
 
 SAILOR'S HYM]^. 
 
 TOSS'D upon life's raging billow, 
 Sweet it is, O Lord, to know 
 Thou hast press'd a sailor's pillow, 
 
 And canst feel a sailor's woe ; 
 Never slumbering, never sleeping, 
 
 Though the night be dark and drear. 
 Thou the faithful watch art keeping — 
 '' All, alFs well !" Thy constant cheer. 
 c 
 
1 8 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 And though loud the wind is howling, 
 
 Fierce though flash the lightnings red, 
 Darkly though the storm-cloud's scowling 
 
 O'er the sailor's anxious head, 
 Thou canst calm the rao^ino^ ocean, 
 
 All its noise and tumult still, 
 Hush the billow's wild commotion, 
 
 At the bidding of Thy will. 
 
 Thus my heart the hope will cherish, 
 
 While to heaven I lift mine eye. 
 Thou wilt save me ere I perish, 
 
 Thou wilt hear me when I cry ; 
 And, though mast and sail be riven. 
 
 Life's short voyage will soon be o'er ; 
 Safely moor'd in heaven's wide haven. 
 
 Storms and tempests vex no more. 
 
 George W. Bethune. 
 
 'aiY MEAT IS TO DO THE WILL OF 
 HIM THAT SE^^T ME." 
 
 (John iv. 34.) 
 
 UPON the well by Sychar's gate. 
 At burning noon the Saviour sate, 
 Athirst and hungry, from the way 
 His feet had trod since early day ; 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 19 
 
 The Twelve had gone to seek for food, 
 And left Him in His solitude. 
 
 They come, and spread before him there, 
 With faithful haste, the pilgrim fare. 
 And gently bid him, " Master, eat ! " 
 But God had sent Him better meat, 
 And there is on His gentle brow 
 Nor weariness nor faintness now. 
 
 For, while they sought the market-place. 
 His words had won a soul to grace ; 
 And when He set that sinner free 
 From bonds of guilt and infamy. 
 His heart grew strong with joy divine, 
 More than the strength of bread and wine. 
 
 So, Christian, when thy faith is faint, 
 Amidst the toils that throng the saint, 
 Ask God that thou mayst peace impart 
 Unto some other human heart ; 
 And thou thy Master's joy shalt share. 
 E'en while His cross thy shoulders bear. 
 
 George W. Bethune. 
 
02 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 XYII. 
 
 BAPTISM. 
 
 WE come to the fountain, we stand by the wave, 
 That flows from the throne of the Mighty to 
 save ; 
 We gaze on its bosom so pure and serene, 
 And seek, blessed Master, to wash and be clean. 
 
 We hear Thy sweet promise, Thy welcome command. 
 And clasp, in our weakness, the strength of Thy hand, 
 To plunge in the waters that o'er us may roll, 
 A flood of salvation for body and soul. 
 
 O Thou, who in Jordan didst bow Thy meek head. 
 And, whelm'd in our sorrow, didst sink to the dead, 
 Then didst rise from the darkness to glory above. 
 And claim 'dst for Thy chosen the kingdom of love, 
 
 Thy footsteps we follow, to bow in the tide. 
 And are buried with Thee in the death Thou hast died ;| 
 Then wake with Thy likeness to walk in the way 
 That brightens and brightens to shadowless day. 
 
 O Jesus our Saviour, Jesus our Lord, 
 
 By the life of Thy passion, the grace of Thy word, 
 
 Accept us, redeem us, dwell ever within, 
 
 To keep, by Thy Spirit, our spirits from sin ; 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 2 
 
 Till, crown'd with Thy glory, and waving the palm, 
 Our garments all white from the blood of the Lamb, 
 We join the bright millions of saints gone before, 
 And bless Thee, and wonder, and praise evermore. 
 
 George W, Bethune. 
 
 XYni. 
 CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 WE come, we come, with loud acclaim. 
 To sing the praise of Jesus' name ; 
 And make the vaulted temple ring 
 With loud hosannahs to our King. 
 
 With thrilling pulse and smiling face 
 We gather round the throne of grace, 
 And lowly bend to offer there. 
 From humble lips, our Christmas prayer. 
 
 We come, we come, the song to swell, 
 To Him who loved our world so well. 
 That, stooping from His Father's throne, 
 He died, to claim it as His own. 
 
 0, thus may we in heaven above 
 Unite in praises and in love ; 
 While happy angels fill their home 
 With joyful cry : " They come, they come ! '' 
 
 George W, Bethune. 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE APPEEHENSION OF DEATH. 
 
 W HEIST time seems short, and death is near, 
 And I am press'd by doubt and fear, 
 And sins, an overflowing tide. 
 Assail mj peace on every side. 
 This thought my refuge still shall be, 
 I know the Saviour died for me. 
 
 His name is Jesus, and He died 
 For guilty sinners, crucified ; 
 Content to die that He might win 
 Their ransom from the death of sin ; 
 No sinner worse than I can be. 
 Therefore I know He died for me. 
 
 If grace were bought, I could not buy ; 
 If grace were coin'd, no wealth have I ; 
 By grace alone I draw my breath, 
 Held up from everlasting death ; 
 Yet since I know His grace is free, 
 I know the Saviour died for me. 
 
 My faith is weak, but 'tis Thy gift ; 
 Thou canst my helpless soul uplift. 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 23 
 
 And say, — *^ Thy bonds of death are riven, 
 Thy sins by Me are all forgiven ; 
 And thou shalt live from guilt set free, 
 For I, thy Saviour, died for thee." 
 
 George W. Bethune, 
 
 XX. 
 
 EARLY LOST, EARLY SAVED. 
 
 WITHIIN' her downy cradle, there lay a little 
 child, 
 And a group of hovering angels unseen upon her 
 
 smiled ; 
 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. 
 
 Another gave her accents, and a voice as musical 
 As a spring-bird's joyous carol, or a rippling stream- 
 let's fall ; 
 
24 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Till all who heard her laughing, or her words 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 en- 
 shrined ; 
 
 Till all who knew her wonder'd, 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. 
 
 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; 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 25 
 
 '^ Ye have tuned to gladness only the accents of her 
 
 tongue, 
 And no wail of human anguish shall from her lips be 
 
 wrung ; 
 ^or shall the soul that shineth so purely from within 
 Her form of earth-born frailty, ever know a sense of 
 
 sin. 
 
 ^' Luird 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 immortality ! '' 
 
 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. 
 
26 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 HYMN TO OTGHT. 
 
 (Suggested by the Bas-relief of Thorwaldsen.) 
 
 YES ! 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-hush'd 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 Xight, 
 Canst thou not take with them a longer flight ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 27 
 
 Canst thou not bear them up, 
 Through starHt skies, far from this planet dim 
 And sorrowful, e'en while thej sleep, to Him 
 
 Who drank for us the cup, 
 Xight, 
 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-crown'd Calvary, 
 In all our sorrows wept, 
 O Night, 
 That on our souls might dawn heaven's cheering 
 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, 
 Night, 
 On them a brother's grace of God's own boundless 
 might. 
 
 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 
 
28 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 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, 
 Night, 
 H^or 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. 
 
 xxn. 
 MORNma PRAYER MEETING. 
 
 HOW sweet the melting lay 
 Which breaks upon the ear, 
 When, at the hour of rising day. 
 Christians unite in prayer. 
 
 The breezes waft their cries 
 Up to Jehovah's throne ; 
 
 He listens to their bursting sighs, 
 And sends His blessings down. 
 
PHOEBE BROWN. 29 
 
 So Jesus rose to pray 
 
 Before the morning light ; 
 Once on the chilling mount did stay 
 
 And wrestle all the night. 
 
 Glory to God on high 
 
 Who sends His blessings down, 
 To rescue souls condemn'd to die, 
 
 And make His people one. 
 
 Phoebe Brown. 
 
 xxin. 
 PRIVATE DEVOTIOJSr. 
 
 ILOYE to steal, awhile, away 
 From every cumbering care, 
 And spend the hours of setting day 
 In humble, grateful prayer. 
 
 I love in solitude to shed 
 
 The penitential tear ; 
 And all His promises to plead. 
 
 Where none but God can hear. 
 
 I love to think on mercies past, 
 And future good implore ; 
 
 And all my cares and sorrows cast 
 On Him whom I adore. 
 
30 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 I love by faith to take a view 
 Of brighter scenes in heaven ; 
 
 The prospect doth mj strength renew, 
 While here by tempests driven. 
 
 Thus when hfe's toilsome day is o'er, 
 
 May its departing ray 
 Be calm as this impressive hour. 
 
 And lead to endless day. 
 
 Phoebe Brown, 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 PEAYEE FOE A EEVIVAL. 
 
 OLOED, Thy work revive, 
 In Zion's gloomy hour ; 
 And make her dying graces live 
 By Thy restoring power. 
 
 Awake Thy chosen few 
 
 To fervent, earnest prayer ; 
 
 Again their sacred vows renew ; 
 Thy blessed presence share. 
 
 Thy Spirit then will speak 
 Through lips of feeble clay, 
 
 And hearts of adamant will break. 
 And rebels will obey. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 31 
 
 Lord ! lend Thy gracious ear ; 
 
 Oh, listen to our cry ! 
 come, and bring salvation here ! 
 
 Our hopes on Thee rely. 
 
 Phoebe Brown. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 MORS JAJS-UA VITAE. 
 
 BESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone 
 by, 
 Upon whose top the clouds in eternal 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 ; 
 I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant 
 
 more, 
 And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day 
 
 is o'er. 
 
 Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold now 
 There steps a weary one with a pale and furrow'd 
 
 brow ; 
 His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought ; 
 He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. 
 
32 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 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 tlie 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 ! 
 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 shown 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 open'd ; an infant group go 
 
 out. 
 The sweet smile quench'd for ever, and still'd the 
 
 sprightly shout. 
 
33 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, 
 
 Oh frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward 
 
 strows 
 Its fair joung buds unopen'd, 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. 
 
 Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those piUars 
 gray, 
 
 ^d prints of Uttle 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- 
 
34 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S HYMN. 
 
 LOED, who ordainest for mankind 
 Benignant toils and tender cares ! 
 We thank Thee for the tie that binds 
 The mother to the child she bears. 
 
 We thank Thee for the hopes that rise 
 Within her heart, as day bj day, 
 
 The dawning soul, from those young eyes. 
 Looks with a clearer, steadier ray. 
 
 And grateful for the blessing given. 
 With that dear infant on her knee, 
 
 She trains the eye to look to heaven. 
 The voice to lisp a prayer to Thee. 
 
 Such thanks the blessed Mary gave. 
 When, from her lap, the Holy Child, 
 
 Sent from on high, to seek and save 
 The lost of earth, look'd up and smiled. 
 
 All Gracious ! gTant to those who bear 
 A mother's charge, the streugth and light 
 
 To lead the steps that own their care 
 In ways of love and truth and right. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 35 
 
 xxvn. 
 HYMN OF THE CITY. 
 
 NOT in the solitude 
 Alone, may man commune with heaven, or see 
 Only in savage wood, 
 Or sunny vale, the present Deity ; 
 
 Or only hear His voice 
 Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. 
 
 Even here do I behold 
 Thy steps. Almighty ! here, amidst the crowd 
 
 Through the great city roll'd. 
 With everlasting murmur, deep and loud, 
 
 Choking the ways that wind 
 'Mongst the proud piles — the work of humankind. 
 
 Thy golden sunshine comes 
 From the round heaven, and on their dwelling lies, 
 
 And lights their inner homes ; 
 For them Thou fiU'st with air the unbounded skies. 
 
 And givest them the stores 
 Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. 
 
 Thy Spirit is around, 
 Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; 
 
 And this eternal sound, — 
 Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng,-^ 
 
36 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Like the resounding sea, 
 Or like the raving tempest, speaks of Thee. 
 
 And when the hours of rest 
 Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea hrine, 
 
 Hushing its billowy breast, 
 The quiet of that moment, too, is Thine ; 
 
 It breathes of Him who keeps 
 The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant, 
 
 XX vm. 
 ^'* BLESSED AEE THEY THAT MOUEN." 
 
 OH, 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. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 37 
 
 And thou who o'er thy friend's low bier 
 Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,* 
 
 Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
 Will give him to thy arms again, 
 
 ^or let the good man's trust depart, 
 Though Hfe its common gifts deny, 
 
 Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, 
 And spurn'd of man, he goes to die. 
 
 For God hath mark'd each sorrowing day 
 
 And number'd every secret tear. 
 And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
 
 For all His children suffer here. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant, 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 DEDICATION HYMN. 
 
 OTHOU, whose own vast temple stands 
 Built over earth and sea. 
 Accept the waUs that human hands 
 Have raised to worship Thee. 
 
 Lord, from Thine inmost glory send. 
 
 Within these courts to bide. 
 The peace that dwelleth without end 
 
 Serenely by Thy side ! 
 
 * Psalm Ixxxiv. 6. 
 
38 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 May erring minds that worship here 
 
 Be taught the better way ; 
 And they who mourn and they who fear, 
 
 Be strengthen'd as they pray. 
 
 May faith grow firm, and love grow warm, 
 
 And pure devotion rise, 
 While round these hallow'd walls the storm 
 
 Of earth-born passion dies. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 "NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHEE." 
 
 WHEN he, who from the scourge of wrong . 
 Aroused the Hebrevv tribes to fly, 
 Sawrthe fair-region, pronrisedilong. 
 And bow'd him on the hills to die ; 
 
 God made his grave, to men unknown, 
 Where Moab's rocks a vale enfold ; 
 
 And laid the aged seer alone. 
 
 To slumber while the world grows old. 
 
 Thus still, whene'er the good and just 
 Close the dim eye on life and pain, 
 
 Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust 
 Till the pure spirit comes again. 
 
WILLIAM H, BURLEIGH. 39 
 
 Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, 
 
 His servant's humble ashes lie, 
 Yet God has mark'd and sealed the spot, 
 
 To call its inmate to the sky. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 FAITH'S REPOSE. 
 
 FATHEK ! beneath Thy sheltering wiug 
 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, 
 
 And so thy perfect peace to win : 
 And nought is ill, nor brings us loss, 
 
 Nor works us harm, save only sin. 
 
 Kedeem'd 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. 
 
40 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 A PEAYEE FOE GUIDANCE. 
 
 LEAD us, O Father ! in the paths of peace ; 
 Without Thy guiding hand we go astray, 
 And douhts appal, and sorrows still increase — 
 Lead us through Christ, the true and living Way. 
 
 Lead us, O Father ! in the paths of truth ; 
 
 Unhelp'd hy Thee, in error's maze we grope, 
 While passion stains and folly dims our youth. 
 
 And age comes on uncheer'd by faith and hope. 
 
 Lead us, O Father ! in the paths of right ; 
 
 Blindly we stumble when we walk alone, 
 Involved in shadows of a moral night, 
 
 Only with Thee we journey safely on. 
 
 Lead us, O Father ! to Thy heavenly rest. 
 However rough and steep the path may be ; 
 
 Through joy or sorrow, as Thou deemest best, 
 Until our lives are perfected in Thee ! 
 
 William H. Burleigh. 
 
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 41 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 A PSALM OF NIGHT. 
 
 NOT only doth the voiceful Day 
 Thy lovhig-kindness, Lord, proclaim, 
 But Night, with its suhlime array 
 
 Of worlds, doth magnify Thy name ! 
 Yea, while adoring seraphim 
 
 Before Thee bend the willing knee, 
 From every star a choral hymn 
 Goes up unceasingly to Thee ! 
 
 O Holy Father ! 'mid the calm 
 
 And stillness of this evening hour, 
 We, too, would lift our solemn psalm 
 
 To praise Thy goodness and Thy power ; 
 For over us, as over all, 
 
 Thy tender mercies still extend ; 
 Nor vainly shall the contrite call 
 
 On Thee, our Father and our Friend. 
 
 Kept by Thy goodness through the day. 
 
 Thanksgiving to Thy name we pour ; 
 Night o'er us with its stars, we pray 
 
 Thy love to guard us evermore ! 
 In grief, console — in gladness, bless — 
 
 In darkness, guide — in sickness, cheer — 
 Till, perfected in righteousness. 
 
 Our souls before Thy throne appear. 
 
 William H, Burleigh. 
 
42 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 '^BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN/' 
 
 OH, deem not that earth's crowning bliss 
 Is found in joj alone ; 
 For sorrow, bitter though it be, 
 
 Hath blessings all its own ; 
 From lips divine, like healing balm, 
 
 To hearts oppressed and torn. 
 This heavenly consolation fell — 
 " Blessed are they that mourn ! " 
 
 As blossoms smitten by the rain, 
 
 Their sweetest odours yield — 
 As where the ploughshare deepest strikes, 
 
 Eich harvests crown the field ; 
 So, to the hopes by sorrow crush'd, 
 
 A nobler faith succeeds ; 
 And life, by trials furrow'd, bears 
 
 The fruit of loving deeds. 
 
 Who never mourn'd, hath never knoTVTi 
 
 What treasures grief reveals — 
 The sympathies that humanize. 
 
 The tenderness that heals, — 
 The power to look within the veil. 
 
 And learn the heavenly lore. 
 The key- word to life's mysteries, 
 
 So dark to us before. 
 
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 43 
 
 How rich and sweet and full of strength 
 
 Our human spirits are, 
 Baptized into the sanctities 
 
 Of suffering and of prayer ! 
 Supernal wisdom, love divine, 
 
 Breathed through the lips which said, 
 '^ Oh, blessed are the souls that mourn, — 
 They shall be comforted." 
 
 William H. Burleigh, 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 STILL 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 w^ho hath our way appointed, 
 We find our peace again. 
 
 Choose for us, God ! — nor let our weak preferring 
 
 Cheat our poor souls of good Thou hast designed : 
 Choose for us, God ! — Thy wisdom is unerring, 
 And we are fools and blind. 
 
44 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 So, from our sky, the Night shall furl her shadows, 
 
 And Day pour gladness thi^ough his golden gates ; 
 Our rough path lead to flower- enamell'd meadows, 
 \Yhere joy our coming waits. 
 
 Let us press on in patient self-denial, 
 
 Accept the hardship, shrink not from the loss — 
 Our guerdon lies heyond the hour of trial ; 
 
 Our crown, beyond the cross. 
 
 William H, Burleiqh. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL LAND. 
 
 THEEE'S a Beautiful Land by the spoiler untrod, 
 Unpolluted by sorrow or care ; 
 It is lighted alone by the presence of God, 
 
 Whose throne and whose temple are there : 
 Its crystalline streams, with a murmurous flow. 
 
 Meander through valleys of green, 
 And its mountains of jasper are bright in the glow 
 Of a splendour no mortal hath seen. 
 
 And throngs of glad singers, with jubilant breath, 
 
 Make the air with their melodies rife ; 
 And one, kno^vn on earth as the Angel of Death, 
 
 Shines here as the Angel of Life ! 
 
WILLI A3I H. BURLEIGH. 45 
 
 An infinite tenderness beams from his eyes, 
 
 On his brow is an infinite calm, 
 And his voice, as it thrills through the depths of the 
 skies, 
 
 Is as sweet as the seraphim's psalm. 
 
 Through the amaranth groves of the Beautiful Land 
 
 Walk the souls who were faithful in this ; 
 And their foreheads, star-crown'd, by the zephyrs are 
 fann'd. 
 
 That evermore murmur of bliss ; 
 They taste the rich fruitage that hangs from the trees, 
 
 And breathe the sweet odours of flowers 
 More fragrant than ever were kiss'd by the breeze 
 
 In Ajraby's loveliest bowers. 
 
 Old prophets, whose words were a spirit of flame 
 
 Blazing out o'er the darkness of time ; 
 And martyrs, whose courage no torture could tame, 
 
 Nor turn from their purpose sublime ; 
 And saints and confessors, a numberless throng, 
 
 Who were loyal to truth and to right. 
 And left, as they walk'd through the darkness of wrong, 
 
 Their footprints encircled with light. 
 
 And the dear little children, who went to their rest 
 Ere their lives had been sullied by sin. 
 
 While the Angel of Morning still tarried, a guest, 
 Their spirits' pure temple within — 
 
46 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 All are there — all are there — in the Beautiful Land, 
 
 The land bj the spoiler untrod, 
 And their foreheads, star-crown'd, by the breezes are 
 fann'd 
 
 That blow from the gardens of God ! 
 
 Mj soul hath look'd in through the gateway of dreams, 
 
 On the city all paven with gold, 
 And heard the sweet flow of its murmurous streams, 
 
 As through the green valleys they rolFd ; 
 And though it still waits on this desolate strand, 
 
 A pilgrim and stranger on earth. 
 Yet it knew, in that glimpse of the Beautiful Land, 
 
 That it gazed on the home of its birth ! 
 
 William H. Burleigh. 
 
 "BLESSED AEE THE PURE IN HEART." 
 
 THEY who have kept their spirit's virgin whiteness 
 Undimm'd by folly and unstain'd by sin, 
 And made their foreheads radiant with the brightness 
 Of the pure truth whose temple is within, 
 They shall see God. 
 
 Freed from the thrall of every sinful passion, 
 Around their pathway beams celestial light ; 
 
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 47 
 
 Thej drink with joj the waters of salvation, 
 And in His love, whose love is infinite, 
 
 They shall see God. 
 
 Though clouds may darken into storms around them, 
 The promise pours through all its steady ray ; 
 
 Nor hate can daunt nor obloquy confound them, 
 Nor earth's temptations lure them from the way 
 That leads to God. 
 
 They shall see God! Oh ! glorious fruition 
 Of all their hopes and longings here below I 
 
 They shall see God in beatific vision. 
 And evermore into His likeness grow — 
 Children of God ! 
 
 So when the measure of their faith is meted. 
 
 And angels beckon from the courts on high — 
 Fill'd with all grace, the work divine completed, 
 They shall put on their immortality. 
 
 And dwell with God ! 
 
 William H. Burleigh, 
 
 xxxvin. 
 MISERERE, DOMINE! 
 
 THOU, who look'st with pitying eye 
 From thy radiant throne on high, 
 On the spirit tempest-tost. 
 Wretched, weary, wandering, lost ; 
 
 1 
 
48 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Ever ready help to give, 
 And entreating — " Look and live ! '' 
 Ey 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, 
 
 Liftino; heart and voice to Thee — 
 Miserere, Domine ! 
 
 With the vain and giddy throng, 
 Father ! we have wander'd long, 
 Eager from thy paths to stray, 
 Chosen the forbidden way ; 
 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, Domirie ! 
 
 From the burden of our grief 
 Who but Thou can give relief? 
 Who can pour salvation's light 
 On the darkness of our night ? 
 
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 49 
 
 Bow'd our load of sin beneath, 
 T\Tio 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, Domine ! 
 
 Where the pastures greenly grow, 
 Where the waters gently flow, 
 And beneath the sheltering Eock, 
 With the Shepherd rests the flock. 
 Oh, let us be gather'd 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. 
 
50 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 EVENIXG THAXK - OFFERING. 
 
 THEOUGH the changes of the da j 
 Kept hj Thy sustaining power, 
 Offering of thanks we pay, 
 
 Father, in this evening hour. 
 Praises to Thy name belong, 
 
 Source and Giver of all good ; 
 'VVHaile we Hft our evening song, 
 Fill our souls with gratitude. 
 
 From the dangers which have frown'd, 
 
 From the snares in secret set, 
 We have, through Thy mercy, found 
 
 Safety and dehverance yet. 
 All the day that mercy hath 
 
 Guarded us from ills untold. 
 All the day along our path 
 
 Scatter'd blessings manifold. 
 
 Spirit, who hast been our light 
 
 And the guardian of oiu* way, 
 Let Thy mercy and Thy might 
 
 Keep us to another day : 
 Help us. Father, so to spend 
 
 All our moments as they flee. 
 That, when life and labour end, 
 
 We may fall asleep in Thee ! 
 
 William H. Burleigh. 
 
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 51 
 
 XL. 
 
 NEEDED BLESSINGS. 
 
 WE ask not that our path be always bright^ 
 But for Thine aid to walk therein aright ; 
 That Thou, Lord ! through all its devious way, 
 Wilt give us strength suflScient to our day, 
 For this, for this we pray. 
 
 Not for the fleeting joys that earth bestows, 
 Not for exemption from its many woes ; 
 But that, come joy or woe, come good or ill. 
 With child-like faith we trust Thy guidance still, 
 And do Thy holy will. 
 
 Teach us, dear Lord ! to find the latent good 
 That sorrow yields, when rightly understood ; 
 And for the frequent joy that crowns our days, 
 Help us, with grateful hearts, our hymns to raise 
 Of thankfulness and praise. 
 
 Thou knowest all our needs, and wilt supply ; 
 No veil of darkness hides us from Thine eye, 
 Nor vainly, from the depths, on Thee we call ; 
 Thy tender love, that breaks the tempter's thrall. 
 Folds and encircles all. 
 
 Through sorrow and through loss, by toil and prayer, 
 Saints won the starry crowns which now they wear. 
 
52 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 And by the bitter ministry of pain, 
 Grievous and harsh, but oh ! not sent in vain, 
 Found their eternal gain. 
 
 If it be ours, Hke them, to suffer loss, 
 Give grace, as unto them, to bear our cross. 
 Till, victors over each besetting sin. 
 We, too. Thy perfect peace shall enter in, 
 And crowns of glory win. 
 
 William H, Burleigh. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 GOOD IX ILL. 
 
 WHEN gladness gilds our prosperous day. 
 And hope is by fruition crown'd, 
 *^ Oh Lord," with thankful hearts we say, 
 *' How doth Thy love to us abound ! " 
 
 But is that love less truly shown 
 
 ^Tien earthly joys lie cold and dead, 
 
 And hopes have faded, one by one. 
 Leaving sad memories in their stead ? 
 
 God knows the disciphne we need 
 Nor sorrow sends for sorrow's sake ; 
 
 And though our stricken hearts may bleed. 
 His mercy will not let them break. 
 
WILLIAM U. BURLEIGH. 53 
 
 Oh, teach us to discern the good 
 
 Thou sendest in the guise of ill ; 
 Since all Thou dost, if understood, 
 
 Interpreteth Thy loving will. 
 
 For pain is not the end of pain, 
 
 ISTor seldom trial comes to bless, 
 And work for us abundant gain, 
 
 The peaceful fruits of righteousness. 
 
 Then let us not, with anxious thought, 
 
 Ask of to-morrow's joys or woes, 
 But, by His word and Spirit taught, 
 
 Accept as best what God bestows. 
 
 William H. Burleigh, 
 
 XLII. 
 
 ANGELIC COMMUNINGS. 
 
 BOW, 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. 
 
54 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 Against my face 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 
 Overflow upon the flowers. 
 
 His grace descends ; and, as of old, 
 
 He walks with men apart. 
 Keeping the promise, as foretold, 
 
 With all the pure in heart. 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 Xlilll. 
 
 THE WAY. 
 
 I 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. 
 
ALICE GARY. 55 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 Cary. 
 
 XLIV, 
 
 LIFE'S JOURNEY ENDED. 
 
 LEAVE me, dear ones, to my slumber. 
 Daylight's faded glow is gone ; 
 In the red light of the morning 
 I must rise and journey on. 
 
 I am weary, oh, how weary ! 
 
 And would rest a little while ; 
 Let your kind looks be my blessing, 
 
 And your last " Good-night " a smile. 
 
56 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 We have journey'd up together, 
 
 Through the pleasant day-time flown ; 
 
 Now my feet have press'd hfe's summit, 
 And my pathway hes alone. 
 
 And, my dear ones, do not call me. 
 Should you haply he awake. 
 
 When across the eastern hill-tops 
 Presently the day shall hreak. 
 
 For, while yet the stars are lying 
 In the gray lap of the dawn, 
 
 On my long and solemn journey 
 I shall be awake and gone ; 
 
 Far from mortal pain and sorrow, 
 And from passion's stormy swell, 
 
 Knocking at the golden gateway 
 Of the eternal citadel. 
 
 Therefore, dear ones, let me slumber — 
 Faded is the day and gone ; 
 
 And, with morning's early splendour, 
 I must rise and journey on. 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
ALICE CARY. si 
 
 XLV. 
 
 LIGHT AND LOVE. 
 
 LIGHT 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 mountain flowers inclose, 
 
 Nor golden raining of the winnow'd wheat, 
 Nor blushing out of the brown earth, of rose, 
 
 Or whitest lily, as, beyond time's wars. 
 
 The silvery rising of these two twin stars. 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 SOWING SEED. 
 
 GO and sow beside all waters. 
 In the morning of thy youth, 
 In the evening scatter broadcast 
 Precious seeds of living truth. 
 
58 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 For though much may sink and perish 
 In the rocky, barren mould, 
 
 And the harvest of thy labour 
 May be less than thirty-fold, 
 
 Let thy hand be not withholden. 
 
 Still beside all waters sow. 
 For thou know'st not which shall prosper, 
 
 "V\^ether this or that will grow ; 
 
 While some precious portion, scatter'd, 
 
 Germinating, taking root. 
 Shall spring up, and grow, and ripen 
 
 Into never-dying fruit. 
 
 Therefore sow beside all waters, 
 Trusting, hoping, toiling on ; 
 
 When the fields are white for harvest, 
 God will send His angels down. 
 
 And thy soul may see the value 
 Of its patient morns and eves, 
 
 When the everlasting garner 
 
 Shall be fill'd with precious sheaves. 
 
 Phcebe Gary. 
 
PHCEBE GARY. 59 
 
 XI. vn. 
 
 MY BLESSINGS. 
 
 GREAT waves of plenty rolling up 
 Their golden billows to our feet, 
 Fields where the ungather'd rye is white, 
 Or heavy with the 3^ellow wheat ; 
 
 Wealth surging inward from the sea, 
 And plenty through our land abroad, 
 
 With sunshine resting over all, 
 That everlasting smile of God ! 
 
 For these, yet not for these alone. 
 My tongue its gratitude would say ; 
 
 All the great blessings of my life 
 Are present in my thought to-day. 
 
 For more than all my mortal wants 
 Have been, O God, thy full supplies ; 
 
 Health, shelter, and my daily bread, 
 For these my grateful thanks arise. 
 
 For ties of faith, whose wondrous strength 
 
 Time nor eternity can part ; 
 For all the words of love that fall 
 
 Like living waters on my heart ; 
 
6o LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 For even that fearful strife, where sin 
 Was conquered and subdued at length, 
 
 Temptations met and overcome, 
 
 Whereby my soul has gather'd strength ; 
 
 For all the warnings that have come 
 From mortal agony or death ; 
 
 For even that bitterest storm of life. 
 Which drove me on the rock of faith. 
 
 For all the past I thank Thee, God ! 
 
 And for the future trust in Thee, 
 Whate'er of trial or blessing yet, 
 
 Ask'd or unask'd, Thou hast for me. 
 
 Yet only this one boon I crave. 
 After life's brief and fleeting hour, 
 
 Make my beloved Thy beloved. 
 And keep us in Thy day of power ! 
 
 Phoebe Cary. 
 
 XLVin. 
 DRAWING WATER. 
 
 I HAD drunk, with lips unsated, 
 Where the founts of pleasure burst ; 
 I had hewn out broken cisterns. 
 And they mock'd my spirit's thirst : 
 
PHCEBE GARY. 6i 
 
 And I said, Life is a desert, 
 
 Hot, and measureless, and dry ; 
 And God will not give me water. 
 
 Though I pray, and faint, and die. 
 
 Spoke there then a friend and brother, 
 
 " Eise, and roll the stone away ; 
 There are founts of life upspringing 
 
 In thy pathway every day." 
 
 Then I said, my heart was sinful, 
 
 Yery sinful was my speech ; 
 All the wells of God's salvation 
 
 Are too deep for me to reach. 
 
 And he answer'd, '' Eise and labour. 
 
 Doubt and idleness is death ; 
 Shape thee out a goodly vessel 
 
 With the strong hands of thy faith." 
 
 So I wrought and shaped the vessel, 
 
 Then knelt lowly, humbly there. 
 And I drew up living water 
 
 With the golden chain of prayer. 
 
 Phoebe Cart/, 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 XLTX. 
 
 NEAEER HOME. 
 
 ONE sweetly solemn thought 
 Conies to me o'er and o'er, — 
 I am nearer home to-day 
 
 Than I have ever been before ; 
 
 Nearer my Father's house 
 
 Where the many mansions be, 
 
 Nearer the great white throne. 
 Nearer the jasper sea ; 
 
 Nearer the bound of life 
 
 Where we lay our burdens down ; 
 Nearer leaving the cross, 
 
 Nearer gaining the crown. 
 
 But lying darkly between, 
 
 Winding down through the night. 
 Is the dim and unknown stream 
 
 That leads at last to the light. 
 
 Closer and closer my steps 
 
 Come to the dark abysm ; 
 Closer death to my lips 
 
 Presses the awful chrysm. 
 
JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 63 
 
 Father, perfect my trust ; 
 
 Strengthen the might of my faith ; 
 Let me feel as I would when I stand 
 
 On the rock of the shore of death, — 
 
 Feel as I would when my feet 
 
 Are slipping o'er the brink ; 
 For it may be I'm nearer home, — 
 
 Nearer now than I think. 
 
 Phoebe Cart/. 
 
 L. 
 
 THE PKODIGAL. 
 
 BROTHER, hast thou wander'd far 
 From thy Father's happy home, 
 With thyself and God at war ? 
 
 Turn thee, brother, homeward come ! 
 
 Hast thou wasted all the powers 
 
 God for noble uses gave ? 
 Squander'd life's most golden hours ? 
 
 Tm^n thee, brother, God can save ! 
 
 Is a mighty famine now 
 
 In thy heart anrd in thy soul ? 
 
 Discontent upon thy brow ? 
 
 Turn thee, God will make thee whole ! 
 
64 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 He can heal thy bitterest wound, 
 He thy gentlest prayer can hear ; 
 
 Seek Him, for He may be found ; 
 Call upon Him ; He is near. 
 
 James Freeman Clarke. 
 
 LI. 
 CHEIST'S PEESENCE. 
 
 DEAE 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, 
 Eevive our souls, and let us see 
 
 Life's water turn'd to wine. 
 
 Gay mirth shall deepen into joy. 
 
 Earth's hopes grow half divine, 
 A\Tien Jesus visits us, to make 
 
 Life's water glow as wine. 
 
 The social talk, the evening fire. 
 
 The homely household shrine. 
 Grow bright with angel visits, when 
 
 The Lord pours out the wine. 
 
JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 65 
 
 For whea self-seeking turns to love, 
 
 JS'ot knowing mine nor thine, 
 The miracle again is wrought, 
 
 And water turn'd to wine. 
 
 James Freeman Clarke, 
 
 LII. 
 
 '^HE GI7ETH POWER TO THE FAINT.'' 
 
 FATHEE, to us Thj children, humbly kneeling, 
 Conscious of weakness, ignorance, sin, and 
 shame. 
 Give such a force of holj thought and feeling, 
 That we may live to glorify Thy name ; 
 
 That we may conquer base desire and passion, 
 That we may rise from selfish thought and will, 
 
 O'ercome the world's allurement, threat, and fashion, 
 Walk humbly, gently, leaning on Thee still. 
 
 Let all Thy goodness by our minds be seen, 
 Let all Thy mercy on our souls be seaFd, 
 
 Lord, if Thou wilt. Thy power can make us clean ; 
 0, speak the word ! Thy servants shall be heal'd. 
 
 James Freeman Clarke. 
 
66 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 THE PEOTESTANT REFORMATION. 
 
 FOR aU Thy gifts we praise Thee, Lord, 
 With hfted song and hended knee ; 
 But now our thanks are chiefly pour'd 
 Eor those who taught us to be free. 
 
 For when the soul lay hound below 
 A heavy yoke of forms and creeds, 
 
 And none Thy word of truth could know, 
 
 O'ergrown with tares and choked with weeds ; 
 
 The monarch's sword, the prelate's pride, 
 The church's curse, the empire's ban, 
 
 By one poor monk were all defied, 
 Who never fear'd the face of man. 
 
 Half-battles were the words he said. 
 Each born of prayer, baptized in tears ; 
 
 And routed by them, backward fled 
 The errors of a thousand years. 
 
 With lifted song and bended knee, 
 
 For all Thy gifts we praise Thee, Lord ; 
 
 But chief for those who made us free, 
 The champions of Thy holy word. 
 
 James Freeman Clarke. 
 
JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 67 
 
 LIV. 
 
 HYMN AND PEAYER, 
 
 T NFIXITE Spirit ! who art round us ever, 
 1 In whom we move, as motes in summer skj, 
 May neither life nor death the sweet bond sever, 
 Which joins us to our unseen Friend on high. 
 
 Unseen, jet not unfelt, if any thought 
 
 Has raised our mind from earth ; or pure desire, 
 
 A generous act, or noble purpose brought, 
 It is Thy breath, O Lord, which fans the fire. 
 
 'i'o me, the meanest of Thy creatures, kneeling, 
 Conscious of weakness, ignorance, sin, and shame, 
 
 (rive such a force of holj thought and feehng, 
 That I may live to glorify Thy name ; 
 
 That I may conquer base desire and passion. 
 
 That I may rise o'er selfish thought and will, 
 O'ercome the world's allurement, threat, and fashion, 
 ■ Walk humbly, softly, leaning on Thee still. 
 
 I am unworthy. Yet, for their dear sake, 
 I ask, whose roots planted in me are found ; 
 
 For precious vines are propp'd by rudest stake, 
 And heavenly roses fed in darkest ground. 
 
68 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Beneath my leaves, though early fall'n and faded, 
 Young plants are warm'd, — they drink my branches' 
 dew : 
 
 Let them not, Lord, by me be L^pas-shaded ; 
 
 Make me, for their sake, firm, and pure, and true. 
 
 For their sake, too, the faithful, wise, and bold, 
 Whose generous love has been my pride and stay. 
 
 Those who have found in me some trace of gold. 
 For their sake purify my lead and clay. 
 
 And let not all the pains and toil be wasted. 
 
 Spent on my youth by saints now gone to rest ; 
 
 Nor that deep sorrow my Kedeemer tasted, 
 
 When on His soul the guilt of man was press'd. 
 
 Tender and sensitive, He braved the storm, 
 That we might 'scape a well-deserved fate ! 
 
 Pour'd out His soul in supplication warm ! 
 Look'd with His eyes of love on eyes of hate ! 
 
 Let all this goodness by my mind be seen ; 
 
 Let all this mercy on my heart be seal'd ; 
 Lord, if Thou wilt, Thy power can make me clean : 
 
 O, speak the word — Thy servant shall be heal'd. 
 
 James Freeman Clarket 
 
JOSEPH H. CLINCH. 69 
 
 LV. 
 
 'SO THEY BID EAT AND WERE FILLED." 
 
 T 
 
 THOUSANDS 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 ? 
 A\Tiat but that Word divine, which call'd of yore 
 
 Systems and suns to grace 
 
 The mighty realms of space, 
 And then with life and beauty spread them o'er ? 
 
 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 bless'd the bread, was God's, — and Thou art 
 God! 
 
 Joseph H, Clinch. 
 
70 LYEA SACRA A31ERICANA. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 '^WHY STA^D YE HERE ALL THE DAY IDLE:" 
 
 WHAT can I do the cause of God to aid ? 
 Can powers so weak as mine 
 Forward the o-reat design ? 
 JSTot hj 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 will find. 
 
 Come, then, in childhood to the vineyard's gate: 
 
 E'en you can dress the roots, 
 
 And train the tender shoots. 
 Then why in sloth and sin contented wait ? 
 
 To move the harden'd 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, 
 
JOSEPH H. CLINCH. -ji 
 
 LVII. 
 
 PUT ON THE WHOLE ARMOUE OF GOD." 
 
 YOtWG soldier of the cross, beware ! 
 A watchful foe besets thy way, 
 His bow is ready bent to slay 
 Thy soul unarm'd 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, 
 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. 
 
72 LIRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 LYin. 
 THE HEART'S SONG. 
 
 " Behold, I stand at the door." 
 
 IN the silent midnight watches, 
 List thy hosom-door ; 
 How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, 
 
 Knocketh evermore I 
 Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating, 
 
 'Tis thy heart of sin ; 
 'Tis thy Saviour stands entreating, 
 '' Eise and let Me in." 
 
 Death comes down with equal footstep 
 
 To the hall and hut ; 
 Think you death will stand a-knocking 
 
 AMiere the door is shut ? 
 Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth ; 
 
 But thy door is fast ; 
 Grieved, at length away He turneth. 
 
 Death breaks in at last. 
 
 Then 'tis thine to stand entreating 
 
 Christ to let thee in ; 
 At the door of heaven beating, 
 
 Wailing for thy sin. 
 
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 73 
 
 Nay, alas thou foolish virgin, 
 
 Hast thou then forgot ? 
 Jesus waited long to know thee, 
 
 Eut — He knows thee not. 
 
 Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 
 
 LIX. 
 OH, WALK WITH GOD. 
 
 " And Enoch walked with God.'' 
 
 OH, walk with God, and thou shalt find 
 How He can charm thy way, 
 And lead thee with a quiet mind 
 
 Into His perfect day. 
 His love shall cheer thee, like the dew 
 
 That hathes the drooping flower. 
 That love is every morning new, 
 Nor fails at evening's hour. 
 
 Oh, walk with God, and thou with smiles 
 
 Shalt tread the way of tears, 
 His mercy every ill beguiles, 
 
 And softens all our fears. 
 No fire shall harm thee, if alas ! 
 
 Through fires He hid thee go ; 
 Through waters, when thy footsteps pass. 
 
 They shall not overflow. 
 
74 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Oh, walk with God, while thou on earth 
 
 With pilgrim steps must fare, 
 Content to leave the world its mirth, 
 
 And claim no dwelling there. 
 A stranger, thou must seek a home 
 
 Beyond the fearful tide, 
 And if to Canaan thou wouldst come, 
 
 Oh, who but God can guide ? 
 
 Oh, walk with God, and thou shalt go 
 
 Down death's dark vale in light. 
 And find thy faithful walk below 
 
 Hath reach'd to Zion's height ! 
 Oh, walk with God, if thou wouldst see 
 
 Thy pathway thither tend : 
 And lingering though thy journey be, 
 
 'Tis heaven and home at end ! 
 
 Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 
 
 LX. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN CONFLICT. 
 
 SOLDIEK, to the contest pressing, 
 Onward, let thy watchword be ; 
 God upon thee pours His blessing ; 
 WTiat thouo^h man derideth thee ! 
 
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 75 
 
 Onward, though the faggot's burning 
 
 Be thy pathway's only Hght : 
 Onward, death and danger spurning, 
 
 Onward in the path of right ! 
 
 God, for all thy wants providing, 
 
 Armour trusty hath for thee ; 
 Gird thyself, in Him confiding, 
 
 With the goodly panoply : 
 
 Righteousness thy breast defending, 
 
 And thy feet with justice shod ; 
 Onward ; with the foe contending, 
 
 Wield thy sword, the word of God. 
 
 Thine the helmet of salvation. 
 
 Faith thy mighty shield shall be ; 
 
 And let prayer and supplication 
 Lance and glorious falchion be. 
 
 Still the standard o'er thee streaming 
 
 Be the banner pure of love, 
 Where in glorious blazon beaming. 
 
 Float thy pinions, holy dove ! 
 
 Onward then, with bold contending, 
 
 In the path the martyrs trod : 
 God to thee His strength is lending, 
 
 Onward, in the strength of God. 
 
 Arthur Cleveland Core. 
 
76 LIB A SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 '* TEMPTED LIKE AS WE AEE." 
 
 STILL as our day our strength shall he, 
 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 canst be touch'd with mortal care, 
 For Thou didst all our sorrows bear. 
 
 O Lamb of God, the world on Thee 
 Hath laid her deep infirmity ; 
 And in the cross that weigh' d 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. 
 
 O 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 ; 
 
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. -j-j 
 
 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. 
 
 Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 THE SOUL-DIEGE. 
 "Then said Jesus, Will ye also go away?" — St. John vi. 67. 
 
 THE organ play'd sweet music 
 Whileas, on Easter-day, 
 All heartless from the altar, 
 The heedless went away ; 
 And down the broad aisle crowding, 
 
 They seem'd a funeral train 
 That were burying their spirits 
 To the music of that strain. 
 
78 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 As I listen'd to the organ, 
 
 And saw them crowd along, 
 I thouo'ht I heard two voices 
 
 Speaking strangely, but not strong ; 
 And one it whisper'd sadly, 
 
 '' Will ye also go away?" 
 But the other spoke exulting, 
 
 '' Ha ! the soul -dirge ! — hear it play ! " 
 
 Hear the soul-dirge ! hear the soul-dirge ! 
 
 And see the feast divine ! 
 Ha ! the jewels of salvation, 
 
 And the trampling feet of swine ! 
 Hear the soul-dirge ! hear the soul-dirge ! 
 
 Little think they, as they go, 
 What priceless pearls they tread on. 
 
 Who spurn their Saviour so. 
 
 Hear the soul-dirge ! hear the soul-dirge ! 
 
 It was dread to hear it play, 
 While the famishing went crowding 
 
 From the Bread of Life away. 
 They were bidden, they were bidden 
 
 To their Father's festal board ; 
 But they all, with gleeful faces, 
 
 Turn'd their back upon the Lord. 
 
 You had thought the church a prison, 
 Had you seen how they did pour, 
 
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 79 
 
 With giddy, giddy faces, 
 
 From the consecrated door. 
 There was angels' food all ready, 
 
 But the bidden, where were they ? 
 O'er the highways and the hedges. 
 
 Ere the soul-dirge ceased to play. 
 
 Oh, the soul-dirge, how it echoed 
 
 The emptied aisles along. 
 As the open street grew crowded 
 
 With the full outpouring throng ; 
 And then — again the voices, 
 
 " Ha ! the soul-dirge ! — hear it play ! " 
 And the pensive, pensive whisper, 
 
 " Will ye also go away?" 
 
 Few, few were they that linger'd 
 
 To sup with Jesus there ; 
 And yet, for all that spurn'd Him 
 
 There was plenty, and to spare ; 
 And now the food of angels 
 
 Uncovered to my sight, — 
 All glorious was the altar. 
 
 And the chalice glitter'd bright. 
 
 Then came the hymn Trisagion, 
 
 And rapt me up on high. 
 With angels and archangels 
 
 To laud and magnify. 
 
8o LYE A SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 I seem'd to feast in heaven ; 
 
 And downward wafted then, 
 With angels chanting round me, 
 
 Good-will and peace to men. 
 
 I may not tell the rapture 
 
 Of a hanquet so divine ; 
 Ho ! every one that thirst eth, 
 
 Let him taste the bread and wine : 
 Hear the Bride and Spirit saying, 
 
 " Will ye also go away ? " 
 Or, go, poor soul, for ever ! 
 
 Oh, the soul-dirge ! — hear it play ! 
 
 Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 
 
 LXin. 
 WATCHWORDS. 
 
 A Hymn for the Times. 
 
 WE are living — we are dwelling 
 In a grand and awful time ; 
 In an age, on ages telling, 
 To be living is sublime. 
 
 Hark ! the waking up of nations, 
 Gog and Magog to the fray ; 
 
 Hark ! what soundeth, is Creation's 
 Groaning for the latter day. 
 
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 
 
 Will ye play, then ! will ye dally, 
 With your music, with your wine ? 
 
 Up ! it is Jehovah's rally ! 
 
 God's own arm hath need of thine. 
 
 Hark ! the onset ! will ye fold your 
 Faith-clad arms in lazy lock ? 
 
 Up, up, thou drowsy soldier ! 
 Worlds are charging to the shock. 
 
 Worlds are charging — heaven beholding; 
 
 Thou hast hut an hour to fight ; 
 Now, the blazon'd cross unfolding, 
 
 On — right onward, for the right ! 
 
 What ! still hug thy dreamy slumbers ? 
 
 'Tis no time for idling play : 
 Wreaths, and dance, and poet-numbers, 
 
 Flout them ! we must work to-day ! 
 
 Fear not ! spurn the worldling's laughter ; 
 
 Thine ambition — trample thou ! 
 Thou shalt find a long hereafter 
 
 To be more than tempts thee now. 
 
 Oh ! let all the soul within you. 
 For the truth's sake go abroad ! 
 
 Strike ! let every nerve and sinew 
 Tell on ages — tell for God. 
 a 
 
82 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 Magog leadeth many a vassal, 
 Christ his few — His Httle ones ; 
 
 But about our leaguer'd castle, 
 Eear and vanguard are his sons ! 
 
 Seal'd to blush, to waver never : 
 Cross'd, baptized, and born again. 
 
 Sworn to be Christ's soldiers ever, 
 Oh, for Christ, at least be men ! 
 
 Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 WESTERN MISSION^S. 
 
 WESTWAED, Lord, the world alluring, 
 Has Thy risen day-star beamed, 
 And, the sinking soul assuring. 
 
 O'er the world's wide ocean stream'd. 
 Westward, still, the midnight breaking, 
 
 Westward, still, its light be pour'd ! 
 Nations Thy possession making, 
 Utmost lands Thy dwelling, Lord ! 
 
 I ! 
 
 ^Tiere the wilderness is lying. 
 And the trees of ages nod. 
 
 Westward, in the desert crying, 
 Make a highway for our God. 
 
WILLIAM CRO SWELL. 83 
 
 Westward, till the church be kneeUng 
 
 In the forest aisles so dim, 
 And the wild wood's arches peahng 
 
 With the people's holy hymn. 
 
 Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 HYMJS" FOE WHIT-SUNDAY. 
 
 CREATOR 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. 
 
 Ee 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. 
 Till each enemy repelling, 
 And Thy peace around us dwelling, 
 We beneath Thy guidance glorious, 
 Stand o'er every ill victorious. 
 
 William CrosivelL 
 
84 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 CLOUDS. 
 
 ICA]N[NOT look above, and see 
 Yon high-piled, pillowy mass 
 Of evening clouds, so swimmingly 
 
 In gold and purple pass. 
 And think not. Lord, how Thou wast seen 
 
 On Israel's desert way, 
 Before them, in Thy shadowy screen, 
 Pavilion'd all the day ; — 
 
 Or of those robes of gorgeous hue 
 
 Which the Hedeemer wore ; 
 When, ravish'd from His followers' view, 
 
 Aloft His flight He bore ; 
 When, lifted as on mighty wing, 
 
 He curtain'd His ascent. 
 And, wrapt in clouds, went triumphing 
 
 Above the firmament. 
 
 Is it a trail of that same pall 
 
 Of many-colour'd dyes, 
 That high above, o'ermantling all, 
 
 Hangs midway down the skies ? 
 Or borders of those sweeping folds 
 
 Which shall be all unfurl'd 
 Above the Saviour, when He holds 
 
 His judgment on the world ? 
 
WILLIAM CRO SWELL, 85 
 
 For in like manner as He went, 
 
 (My soul, hast thou forgot?) 
 Shall be His terrible descent, 
 
 When man expecteth not. 
 Strength, Son of Man ! against that hour, 
 
 Be to our spirits given. 
 When Thou shalt come again, with power, 
 
 Upon the clouds of heaven. 
 
 William CroswelL 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 FOR VISITORS OF THE SICK. 
 
 LOED, 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. 
 
 Eor 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. 
 Mean are all offerings we can make. 
 
 But Tbou hast taught us. Lord, 
 If given for the Saviour's sake. 
 
 They lose not their reward. 
 
 William CroswelL 
 
86 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 ADVENT. 
 
 "Rejoice in the Lord alway ; and again I say, Rejoice. The 
 Lord is at hand." 
 
 NOW gird your patient loins again, 
 Your wasting torches trim ; 
 The Chief of all the sons of men — 
 
 Who will not welcome Him ? 
 E/BJoice ! 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 ; 
 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 hallow'd eavea 
 
 A Saviour will be born 
 
 In every heart that Him receives 
 
 On His triumphal morn. 
 
 William Croswell. 
 
ELIEL DAVIS. 87 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 ONWARD AND UPWARD. 
 
 FROM every earthly pleasure, 
 From every transient joy, 
 From every mortal treasure 
 
 That soon will fade and cloy ; 
 No longer these desiring, 
 
 Upward our wishes tend, 
 To nohler bliss aspiring, 
 And joys that never end. 
 
 From every piercing sorrow, 
 
 That heaves our breast to-day, 
 Or threatens us to-morrow, 
 
 Hope turns our eyes away ; 
 On wings of faith ascending, 
 
 We see the land of light. 
 And feel our sorrows ending 
 
 In infinite delight. 
 
 'Tis true we are but strangers 
 
 And sojourners below. 
 And countless snares and dangers 
 
 Surround the path we go. 
 Though painful and distressing. 
 
 Yet there's a rest above. 
 And onward still we're pressing, 
 
 To reach that land of love. 
 
 Eliel Daviy. 
 
88 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 liXX. 
 
 MOENma HYMN. 
 
 BEIGHTNESS of the Father's glorj. 
 Light of Light, unclouded day, 
 Lo ! we rise to sing Thy praises ; 
 Hear us, help us, while we pray. 
 
 Lighten Thou our mental darkness, 
 Bid each hellish tempter flee, 
 
 Eouse our dulness, lest it deaden 
 Our devotions. Lord, to Thee. 
 
 Saviour, deign to each believer 
 These, Thy favours, to extend ; 
 
 Answer'd thus, our prayers and praises 
 Shall for evermore ascend. 
 
 Hear us, Father, we intreat Thee, 
 Hear us. Saviour, we implore, 
 
 Hear and help us. Holy Spirit, 
 Thou that reignest evermore. 
 
 George W. Doane. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 THE CHILD AT PEAYEE. 
 
 CHILD, that kneelest meekly there, 
 Pouring all thy soul in prayer. 
 Would that I might be like thee. 
 In unreserving piety. 
 
GEORGE W. DOANE. 89 
 
 Such as thou did Jesus take, 
 Model for mankind to make ; 
 Such as thou, in guileless love, 
 IN^ursling of the Heavenly Dove. 
 
 Oh, that while on thee I gaze, 
 I might learn thy hlessed ways ; 
 All thy confidence of heart, 
 All thine innocence of art. 
 
 Saviour, once Thyself a child, 
 Good and gentle, meek and mild, 
 Make me such as this to be ; 
 Eeproduce Thyself in me ! 
 
 George W. Doane, 
 
 Lxxn. 
 FOE THE SEASON OF LENT. 
 
 FATHER of Mercies, hear ! 
 Tliy pardon we implore. 
 While daily, through this sacred fast. 
 Our prayers, our tears we pour. 
 
 Searcher of hearts, to Thee 
 Our helplessness is known ; 
 
 Be then, to those who seek Thy face. 
 Thy free forgiveness shown. 
 
90 LYE A SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 Our sins have numerous been, 
 We own it, Lord, with shame ; 
 
 Yet spare and heal the broken heart, 
 Spare, for Thy glorious name. 
 
 Grant us the body so 
 
 By fasting to restrain, 
 That sinful thoughts and vain desires 
 
 Our souls no more may stain. 
 
 Thus to Thy contrite ones 
 Thy mercy shall be shown ; 
 
 We ask it, blessed One in Three, 
 We ask it, Three in One. 
 
 George W. Doane. 
 
 Lxxni. 
 THE BANNER OF THE CROSS. 
 
 FLIXG 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. 
 
 Fling out the banner ! Angels bend. 
 In anxious silence, o'er the sign ; 
 
 And vainly seek to comprehend 
 The wonder of the love divine. 
 
GEORGE W. nOANE. 91 
 
 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. 
 
 Fling out the banner ! Let it float 
 
 Skj-ward and sea-ward, high and wide ; 
 
 Our glorj, only in the cross ; 
 Our only hope the Crucified. 
 
 FHng 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. 
 
 George W. Doane. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 GEANT me, great Lord, Thy graces three, 
 Faith and Hope and Charity ; 
 Faith, that on the cross relies, 
 And trusts but in Thy sacrifice. 
 
92 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Hope, tliat, when bj woe opprest, 
 
 Points upward to a heavenly rest ; 
 
 And last, the greatest of the three, 
 
 Oh, give me gentle Charity : 
 
 To suffer all ; to know no pride ; 
 
 To strive another's faults to hide ; 
 
 To answer with a soothing smile. 
 
 When men, with angry words, revile ; 
 
 To envy not that happiness 
 
 Thy hand denies me to possess ; 
 
 The rich man's wealth to covet not. 
 
 Though poverty should he my lot. 
 
 Teach me, through every earthly ill, 
 
 To be submissive to Thy will ; 
 
 And let me of Thy grace receive. 
 
 As I my enemies forgive. 
 
 Then Faith and Hope and Charity 
 
 Will lead me on to heaven through Thee. 
 
 George W. Doane. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 THE TWO ADVENTS. 
 
 HE came not, with His heavenly crown. His 
 sceptre clad with power, 
 His coming was in feebleness, the infant of an 
 hour; 
 
GEORGE W. DOANE. 
 
 An humble manger cradled, first, the Virgin's holy 
 
 birth, 
 And lowing herds companion'd 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. 
 
 And Thou hast borne them. Saviour meek ! and there- 
 fore unto Thee, 
 
 In humbleness and gratitude, our hearts shall offer'd 
 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 
 
 display'd, 
 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 vengeance 
 
 to declare. 
 
94 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 The terrors of that awful day, oh ! who shall under- 
 stand ? 
 
 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 
 wilt not fail. 
 
 Then grant us, Saviour ! so to pass our time in trem- 
 bling here. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 George W. Doane. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 THE CHRISTIANAS DEATH. 
 
 LIFT not thou the wailing voice, 
 T\^eep not, 'tis a Christian dieth. 
 Up, where blessed saints rejoice, 
 
 Kansom'd now, the spirit flieth ; 
 High in heaven's own light she dweUeth ; 
 Full the song of triumph swelleth ; 
 F>eed from earth and earthly faiHng, 
 Lift for her no voice of wailing. 
 
GEORGE W. DOANE. 95 
 
 Pour not thou the bitter tear ; 
 
 Heaven its book of comfort opeth ; 
 Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear, 
 
 But as one who always hopeth, 
 Humbly here in faith relying, 
 Peacefully in Jesus dying, 
 Heavenly joy her eye is flushing, 
 Why should thine with tears be gushing ? 
 
 They who die in Christ are blest, 
 
 Ours be, then, no thought of grieving ; 
 
 Sweetly with their God they rest. 
 All their toils and troubles leaving. 
 
 So be ours the faith that saveth, 
 
 Hope that every trial brave th, 
 
 Love that to the end endureth. 
 
 And, through Christ, the crown secureth. 
 
 George W. Doanc. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERINGS. 
 
 PERFECT 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. 
 
96 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 ^^ Perfect through suffering : " urge the blast, 
 More free, more full, more fierce, more fast ; 
 It recks not where the dust be trod. 
 So the flame w^aft my soul to God. 
 
 George W. Doane, 
 
 LXXYIII. 
 
 EVENIIS^G. 
 (Psahn cxlii. 2.) 
 
 SOFTLY now the light of day 
 Pades upon my sight away ; 
 Pree from care, from labour free, 
 Lord, I would commune with Thee : 
 
 Thou, whose all-pervading eye 
 Nought escapes, without, within, 
 
 Pardon each infirmity. 
 
 Open fault, and secret sin. 
 
GEORGE W. DOANE. 97 
 
 Soon for me the light of day 
 Shall for ever pass away ; 
 Then, from sin and sorrow free, 
 Take me, Lord, to dwell with Thee : 
 
 Thou who, sinless, yet hast known 
 
 All of man's infirmity ; 
 Then, from Thine eternal throne, 
 
 Jesus, look with pitying eye. 
 
 George W, Doane, 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 'THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE. 
 {St. John xiv. 6.) 
 
 THOU art the Way, to Thee alone 
 From sin and death we flee ; 
 And he who would the Father seek. 
 Must seek Him, Lord, by Thee. 
 
 Thou art the Truth, Thy word alone 
 
 True wisdom can impart ; 
 Thou only canst inform the mind 
 
 And purify the heart. 
 
 Thou art the Life, the rending tomb 
 Proclaims Thy conquering arm. 
 
 And those who put their trust in Thee 
 Nor death nor hell shall harm. 
 
 H 
 
98 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Thou art the Way, the Truth, the Life ; 
 
 Grant us that way to know. 
 That truth to keep, that life to win. 
 
 Whose joys eternal flow. 
 
 George W. Doane. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 ''THIS IS A FAITHFUL SAYING." 
 
 YES, it is a faithful saying, 
 Christ," the Saviour, died for me : 
 Haste, my soul, without delaying. 
 To His great atonement flee. 
 
 Shall the Lord of earth and heaven. 
 
 Sojourning with sinful men. 
 Die, that they may be forgiven. 
 
 Yet His death be all in vain ? 
 
 ;N^o — by every drop that's streaming 
 Down from that accursed tree, 
 
 By Thy death, my soul redeeming. 
 Saviour, I will come to Thee. 
 
 Worldly riches, honours, pleasures, 
 Shall no more my soul detain ; 
 
 Dearer Thou than all the treasures 
 Earth can give, or life can gain. 
 
 George W. Doane. 
 
GEORGE DUFFIELD, JUN. 99 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 "STAND UP FOR JESUS." 
 
 STATED up ! — stand up for Jesus ! 
 Ye soldiers of the cross ; 
 Lift high His royal banner, 
 
 It must not suffer loss. 
 From victory unto victory 
 
 His army shall He lead, 
 Till every foe is vanquish'd, 
 And Christ is Lord indeed. 
 
 Stand up ! — stand up for Jesus ! 
 
 The solemn watchword hear, 
 If while ye sleep He suffers/ 
 
 Away with shame and fear ; 
 Where'er ye meet with evil. 
 
 Within you or without, 
 Charge for the God of Battles, 
 
 And put the foe to rout ! 
 
 Stand up ! — stand up for Jesus ! 
 
 The trumpet call obey, 
 Forth to the mighty conflict, 
 
 In this His glorious day. 
 ^' Ye that are men now serve Him,'* 
 
 Against unnumber'd foes ; 
 
 ' Matthew xxvi. 36-46. 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 Let courage rise with danger, 
 
 And strength to strength oppose. 
 
 Stand up ! — stand up for Jesus I 
 
 Stand in His strength alone ; . 
 The arm of flesh will fail you, 
 
 Ye dare not trust your own. 
 Put on the Gospel armour, 
 
 Each piece put on with prayer ; 
 Where duty calls or danger, 
 
 Be never wanting there ! 
 
 Stand up ! — stand up for Jesus ! 
 
 Each soldier to his post ; 
 Close up the broken column, 
 
 And shout through all the host ! 
 Make good the loss so heavy, 
 
 In those that still remain, 
 And prove to all around you 
 
 That death itself is gain ! 
 
 Stand up ! — stand up for Jesus ! 
 
 The strife will not be long ; 
 This day the noise of battle. 
 
 The next the victor's song. 
 To him that overcometh, 
 
 A crown of life shall be ; 
 He with the King of Glory 
 
 Shall reign eternally ! 
 
 George Dvffield, Jun. 
 
JOHN S. D WIGHT. 
 LXXXII. 
 
 NATIONAL HYMN. 
 
 GOD bless our native land ! 
 Firm may she ever stand, 
 Through storm and night : 
 When the wild tempests rave, 
 E/uler of wind and wave, 
 Do Thou our country save 
 By Thy great might ! 
 
 For her our prayers shall rise 
 To God above the skies ; 
 
 On Him we wait. 
 Thou who art ever nigh. 
 Guarding with watchful eye, 
 To Thee aloud we cry, 
 
 God save the state. 
 
 John S. IJwight. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 A GREAT KING, ABOVE ALL GODS/' 
 
 HOW pleasing is Thy voice, 
 O Lord, our heavenly King ; 
 That bids the frosts retire, 
 And wakes the lovely spring ! 
 
LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 The rains return, 
 The ice distils, 
 And plains and hills 
 
 Forget to mourn. 
 
 The morn with glory crown M, 
 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. 
 
 The thunder is His voice ; 
 
 His arrows blazing fires ; 
 He glows in yonder sun. 
 And smiles in starry choirs. 
 The balmy breeze 
 
 His breath perfumes ; 
 His beauty blooms 
 In flowers and trees. 
 
TIMOTHY D WIGHT. 103 
 
 With life He clothes the spring ; 
 
 The earth with summer warms ; 
 He spreads th' autumnal feast, 
 And rides in wintry storms. 
 His gifts divine 
 
 Through all appear, 
 And round the year 
 His glories shine. 
 
 Timothy Dwight. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 PRAY FOR THE PEACE OF JERUSALEM.' 
 
 I LOVE Thy kingdom, Lord, 
 The house of Thine abode, 
 The church our blest Kedeemer 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 praj'ers ascend ; 
 To her my cares and toils be given, 
 
 Till toils and cares shall end. 
 
I04 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Beyond my highest joy 
 
 I prize her heavenly ways, 
 Her sweet communion, solemn vows, 
 
 Her hymns of love and praise. 
 
 Jesus, Thou Friend Divine, 
 Our Saviour, and our Ejng, 
 
 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. 
 
 Timothy Uvnght. 
 
 TEE SANCTUS. 
 
 OHOLY, Holy, Holy Lord, 
 Bright in Thy deeds and in Thy Name ; 
 For ever 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. 
 
JA3IES WALLACE EASTBURN. 105 
 
 O Holy Spirit from above, 
 
 In streams of light and glory given, 
 Thou source of ecstasy and love, 
 
 Thy praises ring through earth and heaven. 
 
 O God Triune, to Thee we owe 
 
 Our every thought, our every song ; 
 And ever may Thy praises flow 
 
 From saint's and seraph's burning tongue. 
 
 James Wallace Eastburn. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 THE LIVING TEMPLE. 
 
 STEANGEES no more we wildly rove 
 Without a blessing from above. 
 On passion's stormy sea ; 
 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. 
 
io6 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 O may we each through faith prepare 
 In that resplendent pile to share, 
 
 Each be a living stone ; 
 Our God shall there for ever dwell, 
 And bliss and light ineffable 
 
 Eternal ages crown ! 
 
 James Wallace Easth 
 
 Hwn. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 THE SEAMAN^S HYMIS^. 
 
 OTHOU eternal viewless Grod 
 That ridest on the seas, 
 Thou that controllest with a nod 
 The billow and the breeze — 
 
 Thy powerful arm alone can save 
 
 Thy children on the deep, 
 Can bear them o'er the curling wave, 
 
 And down the threatening steep. 
 
 Though staunch our bark and proud her way, 
 
 Though breezes swell the sails. 
 Yet Lord, if Thou art not our stay. 
 
 The seaman's courage fails. 
 
 Be Thou, O God ! our kind support, 
 
 Our earnest hopes fulfil ; 
 On the wild ocean, or in port 
 
 Be Thou our anchor still. 
 
JOSEPH EASTBURN. 107 
 
 And oh ! when near temptation's shoal, 
 
 No beacon shines from far, 
 Cheer Thou the seaman's anxious soul 
 
 With Bethlehem's holy star. 
 
 Jesus, our helm, we look to Thee, 
 
 Nor shall we look in vain. 
 From quicksands Thou wilt keep us free. 
 
 And guide us o'er the main. 
 
 And soon, our chequer'd voyage o'er. 
 
 And we have cross'd life's sea. 
 Grant that our crew may tread the shore 
 
 Of bless'd eternity. 
 
 Joseph Eastburn. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 CHRIST WHO STREJSTGTHENETH ME. 
 
 FEEBLE, helpless, how shall I 
 Learn to live and learn to die ? 
 Who, God, my guide shall be ? 
 Who shall lead Thy child to Thee ? 
 
 Blessed Father, gracious one, 
 Thou hast sent Thy holy Son ; 
 He will give the light I need. 
 He my trembling steps will lead. 
 
io8 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Through this world, uncertain, dim, 
 Let me ever learn of Him ; 
 From His precepts wisdom draw, 
 Make His life my solemn law. 
 
 Thus in deed, and thought, and word. 
 Led by Jesus Christ the Lord, 
 In my weakness, thus shall I 
 Learn to live, and learn to die : 
 
 Learn to live in peace and love, 
 Like the perfect ones above ; — 
 Learn to die without a fear, 
 Feeling Thee, my Father, near. 
 
 William H. Furness. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 A CO^^fMUNION HYMN. 
 
 HEEE, in the broken bread. 
 Here, in the cup we take. 
 His body and His blood behold, 
 ^Tio suffered for our sake. 
 
 Yes, that our souls might live. 
 Those sacred Hmbs were torn. 
 
 That blood was spilt, and pangs untold 
 Were by the Saviour borne. 
 
WILLIAM H. FURNESS. 109 
 
 Oh Thou who didst allow 
 
 Thy Son to suffer thus, 
 Father, what more couldst thou h^'ve done 
 
 Than Thou hast done for us ? 
 
 William H. Furness. 
 
 XC. 
 MORNING HYMN. 
 
 IN the morning I will pray 
 For God's blessing on the day ; 
 What this day shall be my lot, 
 Light or darkness, know I not. 
 
 Should it be with clouds o'ercast, 
 Clouds of sorrow, gathering fast, 
 Thou, who givest light divine. 
 Shine within me, Lord, oh, shine ! 
 
 Show me, if I tempted be, 
 How to find all strength in Thee, 
 And a perfect triumph win 
 Over every bosom sin. 
 
 Keep my feet from secret snares. 
 Keep mine eyes, O God ! from tears ; 
 Every step Thy love attend, 
 And my soul from death defend. 
 
 William H. Furness. 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 PRAYER FOR THE SPIRIT. 
 
 OH, is there aught on earth to share 
 Hearts that helong to God alone ? 
 What are the idols reigning there 
 Compared with Thee, All-holy One ? 
 
 Fountain of living \Yaters ! we 
 
 To earthly springs would stoop no more, 
 Athirst we humbly turn to Thee, 
 
 Into our hearts Thy Spirit pour, — 
 
 The Spirit of Thy perfect love, 
 
 The Spirit of Thy truth and peace, 
 
 Come, Blessed Spirit, from above, 
 
 And all these earth-bound souls release. 
 
 William H. Fumess. 
 
 xcn. 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 SLO^YLY by God's hand unfurl'd, 
 Down around the weary world 
 Falls the darkness ; oh, how still 
 Is the working of Thy wiU ! 
 
WILLIAM H. FURNESS, 
 
 Mighty Maker ! Here am I, 
 Work in me as silently, 
 Veil the day's distracting sights, 
 Show me heaven's eternal lights. 
 
 From the darken'd sky come forth 
 Countless stars, a wondrous birth ! 
 So may gleams of glory dart 
 Through the dim abyss, my heart. 
 
 Living worlds to view be brought 
 In the boundless realms of thought, 
 High and infinite desires, 
 Burning like those upper fires. 
 
 Holy truth, eternal right, 
 Let them break upon my sight. 
 Let them shine unclouded, still, 
 And with light my being fill. 
 
 Thou art there. Oh, let me know, 
 Thou art here within me too. 
 Be the perfect peace of God 
 Here as there now shed abroad. 
 
 May my soul attuned be 
 To that perfect harmony. 
 Which, beyond the power of sound, 
 Fills the universe around. 
 
 William H. Furness. 
 
LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 XCIII. 
 DEDICATORY HYMN, 
 
 TO the High and Holy One, 
 To His Spirit, to His Son 
 Be this place for ever given, 
 House of God and gate of heaven. 
 
 To the truth that makes us free, 
 To the Hght that leads to Thee 
 We this temple dedicate, 
 And Thy grace, O God, await. 
 
 Canst Thou be approached by men ? 
 Angels and archangels, when 
 God His glory on them sheds, 
 Veil their faces, bow their heads. 
 
 Yet, Almighty One, Thou art 
 Present in the contrite heart, 
 There dost Thou descend and reign 
 Whom the heavens cannot contain. 
 
 Be our hearts the temples where, 
 Witnesses that Thou art there. 
 Come, descending from above. 
 Faith all -cleansing, peace and love. 
 
THOMAS HASTINGS. 113 
 
 These shall consecrate this place 
 With the beauty of Thy grace, 
 Radiant thus with light divine 
 Be this house for ever Thine ! 
 
 William H. Furness. 
 
 xciv. 
 GOSPEL INVITATION. 
 
 CHILD of sin and sorrow, 
 Fill'd with dismay, 
 Wait not for to-morrow, 
 Yield thee to-day ; 
 
 Heaven bids thee come 
 While yet there 's room ; 
 Child of sin and sorrow, 
 Hear and obey. 
 
 Child of sin and sorrow, 
 Why wilt thou die ? 
 Come while thou canst borrow 
 Help from on high : 
 Grieve not that love 
 Which from above, 
 Child of sin and sorrow, 
 Would bring thee nigh. 
 
 Child of sin and sorrow, 
 Thy moments glide 
 
114 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 Like the flitting arrow 
 Or the rushing tide ; 
 Ere time is o'er 
 Heaven's grace implore, 
 Child of sin and sorrow, 
 In Christ confide. 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
 XCV. 
 IN SOKROW. 
 
 GENTLY, Lord, O gently lead us, 
 Pilgrims in this vale of tears. 
 Through the trials yet decreed us, 
 Till our last great change appears. 
 
 When temptation's darts assail us, 
 When in devious paths we stray. 
 
 Let Thy goodness never fail us — 
 Lead us in Thy perfect way. 
 
 In the hour of pain and anguish. 
 In the hour when death draws near. 
 
 Suffer not our hearts to languish, 
 Suffer not our souls to fear. 
 
 And when mortal life is ended, 
 
 Bid us in Thine arms to rest, 
 Till, by angel hands attended, 
 
 W^e awake among the blest. 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
THOMAS HASTINGS, 
 
 XCVT. 
 
 SO\YING AND EEAPING. 
 
 HE that goeth forth with weeping, 
 Bearing precious seed in love, 
 Never tiring, never sleeping, 
 
 Findeth mercy from above : 
 Soft descend the dews of heaven, 
 Bright the rajs celestial shine ; 
 Precious fruit will thus be given, 
 Through an influence all divine. 
 
 Sow thy seed, be never weary. 
 
 Let no fears thy soul annoy ; 
 Be the prospect ne'er so dreary. 
 
 Thou shalt reap the fruits of joy. 
 Lo ! the scene of verdure brightening. 
 
 See the rising grain appear ; 
 Look again ! the fields are whitening, 
 
 For the harvest time is near. 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 THE LORD IS RISEN. 
 
 HOW calm and beautiful the morn 
 That gilds the sacred tomb, 
 Where once the Crucified was borne, 
 And veil'd in midnight gloom ! 
 
ii6 LYJRA SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 Oh I weep no more the Saviour slain ; 
 The Lord is risen — He Hves again. 
 
 Ye mourning saints ! dry every tear 
 
 For your departed Lord ; 
 " Behold the place — He is not here/' 
 
 The tomb is all unbarr'd : 
 The gates of death were closed in vain : 
 The Lord is risen — He lives ao^ain. 
 
 Now cheerful to the house of prayer 
 
 Your early footsteps bend, 
 The Sa^dour w^ill Himself be there. 
 
 Your advocate and friend ; 
 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. 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
THOMAS HASTINGS. 117 
 
 xcvni. 
 
 TRUST m GOD AMID PERILS. 
 
 I 
 
 ' N time of fear, 
 
 When trouble's near, 
 I look to Thine abode ; 
 Though helpers fail. 
 And foes prevail, 
 I'll put my trust in God. 
 
 And what is life 
 
 But toil and strife ? 
 What terror has the grave ? 
 
 Thine arm of power, 
 
 In peril's hour. 
 The trembling soul will save. 
 
 In darkest skies. 
 
 Though storms arise, 
 I will not be dismay'd ; 
 
 O God of light. 
 
 And boundless might. 
 My soul on Thee is stay'd ! 
 
 Thomas Hastings 
 
ii8 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 xcix. 
 LEANING ON THE SAVIOUR. 
 
 JESUS, merciful and mild, 
 Lead me, as a helpless child ; 
 On no other arm but Thine 
 Would my weary soul recline ; 
 Thou art ready to forgive, 
 Thou canst bid the sinner live — 
 Guide the wanderer, day by day, 
 In the straight and narrow way. 
 
 I am weakness, Thou art might ; 
 I am darkness, Thou art light ; 
 I am all defiled with sin. 
 Thou canst make me pure within ; 
 Foes that threaten to devour, 
 In Thy presence have no power ; 
 Thou canst bid their rage be still. 
 And my heart with comfort fill. 
 
 Thou canst fit me by Thy grace 
 For the heavenly dwelling-place ; 
 All Thy promises are sure. 
 Ever shall Thy love endure ; 
 Then what more could I desire, 
 How to greater bliss aspire ? 
 All I need in Thee I see. 
 Thou art all in all to me. 
 
THOMAS HASTINGS, 119 
 
 Jesus, Saviour all divine, 
 Hast Thou made me truly Thine ? 
 Hast Thou bought me by Thy blood ? 
 Eeconciled my heart to God ? 
 Hearken to my tender prayer. 
 Let me Thy own image bear ; 
 Let me love Thee more and more, 
 Till I reach heaven's blissful shore. 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
 C. 
 PRAYER FOR A REVIVAL. 
 
 OLOED, Thy work revive, 
 In Zion's gloomy hour, 
 And make our dying graces live 
 By Thy restoring power. 
 
 O let Thy chosen few 
 
 Awake to earnest prayer ; 
 
 A^ain their sacred vows renew, 
 Thy blessed presence share. 
 
 Thy Spirit then will speak 
 Through lips of feeble clay, 
 
 Till hearts' of adamant shall break, 
 Till rebels shall obey. 
 
LYRA SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 Now lend Thy gracious ear ; 
 
 Now listen to oiir cry ; 
 Oh, come and bring salvation near ; 
 
 Our hopes on Thee rely. 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
 CI. 
 PILGEIMAGE. 
 
 PILGEIMS in this vale of sorrow, 
 Pressing onward toward the prize, 
 Strength and comfort here we borrow 
 From the hand that rules the skies. 
 
 'Mid these scenes of self-denial. 
 We are call'd the race to run ; 
 
 We must meet full many a trial 
 Ere the victor's crown is won. 
 
 Love shall every comfort lighten, 
 Hope shall urge us swifter on. 
 
 Faith shall every prospect brighten, 
 Till the lio^ht of heaven shall dawn. 
 
 On th' Eternal arm reclining, 
 We at length shall win the day ; 
 
 All the powers of earth combining 
 Shall not snatch our crown away. 
 
 Thomas Hastings 
 
THOMAS HASTINGS. 
 
 CII. 
 CHRIST OUR REFUGE IN TROUBLE. 
 
 QUIET, Lord, this trembling frame, 
 Tranquillize this beating heart, 
 Let the savour of Thy name 
 
 Sweetest influences now impart, 
 Till the thought that Thou art near 
 Shall dispel each rising fear. 
 
 Let me find a hallow'd rest 
 
 Never more in sin to rove, 
 Gently leaning on Thy breast 
 
 Li humility and love ; 
 Like a simple-hearted child. 
 With affections undefiled. 
 
 Then, though earthly cares assail. 
 Though afflictions mark my way. 
 
 No temptations shall prevail 
 To dishearten or betray : 
 
 While I thus in Thee confide, 
 
 Every want is satisfied. 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
122 LYRA SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 cin. 
 INVALID'S HYMN. 
 
 QUIETLY rest in the arms of affection 
 That Heaven extends to the \yearj and worn : 
 Sweetly repose in the Father's protection, 
 
 Who bade the lone wanderer to Jesus return. 
 
 Quietly rest when afflictions attend thee, 
 
 And cast every care on the bosom of Love ; 
 
 Jesus can cause e'en thy griefs to befriend thee, 
 While blessings unnumber'd descend from above. 
 
 Quietly rest e'en in sickness and sorrow, 
 
 When energies fail thee, in body and mind ; 
 
 Eest on the thought of eternity's morrow, 
 With every int'rest to Jesus resign'd. 
 
 Quietly rest, for whate'er may betide thee. 
 
 The Shepherd of Israel will keep thee from harm ; 
 
 No truly good thing has been ever denied thee, 
 Eest on His promise and feel no alarm. 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
 CIV. 
 INVITATIOX TO WAXDEREES. 
 
 RETLTIN, O wanderer, to thy home. 
 Thy Father calls for thee : 
 No longer now an exile roam, 
 In guilt and misery : 
 
 Eeturn, return ! 
 
THOMAS HASTINGS. 
 
 Return, O wanderer, to thy home ; 
 
 'Tis Jesus calls for thee : 
 The Spirit and the Bride say, Come ; 
 
 Oh, now for refuge flee ! 
 
 Eeturn, return ! 
 
 Return, O wanderer, to thy home, 
 
 'Tis madness to delay : 
 There are no pardons in the tomb ; 
 And brief is mercy's day ! 
 
 Return, return ! 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
 CY. 
 
 SONGS IX THE NIGHT. 
 
 SONGS in the night full oft are given, 
 Soft breathing from the air of heaven 
 Sweet zephyrs to the soul. 
 The pilgrim's lonely heart to cheer, 
 And bring celestial glories near 
 By their divine control. 
 
 Songs in the night kind Heaven supplies, 
 When cares and trials round us rise. 
 
 Our comfort to destroy ; 
 They bid the tempter far retire. 
 And fill the soul with holy fire, 
 
 Celestial peace and joy. 
 
124 LYUA SACRA AMERICAXA. 
 
 Songs in the night of sorrow's power, 
 Affliction's tempest, death's dark hour. 
 
 The pilgrim vet will sing ; 
 He'll shout with faith's ujilifted eje, 
 '^ O Grave, where is thj victory ! 
 
 Death, where is thy sting ! " 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
 CYI. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAX IX DEATH. 
 
 WHY lament the Christian dying ? 
 "WTiy indulge in tears or gloom ? 
 Calmly on the Lord relying, 
 
 He can greet the opening tomb. 
 
 What if death, with icy fingers. 
 All the fount of life congeals ? 
 
 'Tis not there thy brother lingers, 
 'Tis not death his S2:)irlt feels. 
 
 Though for him thy soul is mom-ning. 
 Though with grief thy heart is riven, 
 
 While his flesh to dust is turning, 
 All his soul is fill'd with heaven. 
 
 Scenes seraphic, high and glorious, 
 Now forbid his longer stay ; 
 
 See him rise o'er death victorious, 
 Angels beckon him away. 
 
FRANCIS H. HEDGE. 125 
 
 Hark ! the golden harps are ringing, 
 
 Sounds of rapture fill his ear ; 
 Millions, now in heaven singing, 
 
 Greet his joyful entrance there. 
 
 Thomas Hastings. 
 
 I 
 
 CVII. 
 
 STRENGTH FROM THE CROSS. 
 T is finished ! " Man of sorrows ! 
 
 From Thy cross our frailty borrows 
 Strength to bear and conquer thus. 
 
 \\'Tiile extended there we view Thee, 
 Mighty Sufferer ! draw us to Thee ; 
 Sufferer victorious ! 
 
 Not in vain for us uplifted, 
 Man of sorrow^s, 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. 
 
 Honoured be Thy cross for ever ; 
 Star, that points our high endeavour 
 Whither Thou hast gone before I 
 
 Francis H. Hedge. 
 
126 LYEA SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 CVTII. 
 
 INVOCATION TO PUBLIC WORSHIP. 
 
 SOVEREIGN and transforming Grace ! 
 We invoke Thy quickening power; 
 Eeign, the spirit of this place ; 
 Bless the purpose of this hour. 
 
 Holy and creative Light ! 
 
 We invoke Thy kindling ray ; 
 Dawn upon our spirits' night. 
 
 Turn our darkness into day. 
 
 To the anxious soul impart 
 
 Hope all other hopes ahove; 
 Stir the dull and harden'd heart 
 
 With a longing and a love. 
 
 Give the struggling peace for strife, 
 Give the doubting light for gloom ; 
 
 Speed the living into life, 
 
 Warn the dying of their doom. 
 
 Work in all ; in all renew 
 
 Day by day the life divine ; 
 All our wills to Thee subdue, 
 
 All our hearts to Thee incline ! 
 
 Francis H. Hedpe. 
 
p. W. HIGGINSOX, 127 
 
 CIX. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF GOD. 
 
 NO human eyes Thy face may see ; 
 No human thought Thy form may know ; 
 But all creation dwells in Thee, 
 
 And Thy great life 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, 
 
 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. 
 
 P. W, Higginson. 
 
128 LYRA SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 ex. 
 
 " I WILL AEISE AJN^D GO UXTO MY FATHER. 
 
 TO Thine eternal arms, O God I 
 Take us, Thine erring children, in ; 
 From dangerous paths too holdlj 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 matm^er days. 
 
 We still are helpless without Thee ! 
 
 We trusted hope and pride and strength : 
 
 Our strength proved false, our pride was vain. 
 
 Our dreams have faded all at length, — 
 We come to Thee, Lord ! again. 
 
 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. 
 
 P. W. Higginson. 
 
 CXI. 
 THE JOY UNKNOWN IN HEAVEN. 
 
 TEEMBLING before Thine awful Tlirone, 
 O Lord ! in dust my sins I own : 
 Justice and mercy for my life 
 Contend : oh, smile and heal the strife. 
 
ABRAHAM LUCAS HILLHOUSE. 129 
 
 The Saviour smiles ! upon my soul 
 New tides of hope tumultuous roll — 
 His voice proclaims my pardon founds 
 Seraphic transport wings the sound. 
 
 Earth has a joy unknown in heaven — 
 The new-born peace of sin forgiven ! 
 Tears of such pure and deep delight, 
 Ye angels ! never dimm'd your sight. 
 
 Ye saw of old, on chaos rise 
 The beauteous pillars of the skies ; 
 Ye know where morn exulting springs, 
 And evening folds her drooping wings. 
 
 Bright heralds of th' Eternal Will, 
 Abroad His errands ye fulfil ; 
 Or, throned in floods of beamy day, 
 Symphonious in His presence play. 
 
 Loud is the song — ^the heavenly plain 
 Is shaken with the choral strain — 
 And dying echoes, floating far, 
 Draw music from each chiming star. 
 
 But I amid your choirs shall shine, 
 And all your knowledge shall be mine : 
 Ye on your harps must lean to hear 
 A secret chord that mine will bear. 
 
 Abraham Lucas Hillhouse. 
 
 K 
 
130 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 A MOKXIXG HYMN. 
 
 LET there be light ! " The Eternal spoke ; 
 And from the abyss where darkness rode, 
 The earliest dawn of nature broke, 
 And light around creation flow'd. 
 The glad earth smiled to see the day, 
 
 The first-born day, come blushing in ; 
 The young day smiled to shed its ray 
 Upon a world untouch' d by sin. 
 
 '^ Let there be light !" O'er heaven and earth. 
 
 The God who first the day -dawn pour'd, 
 Utter'd again His fiat forth, 
 
 And shed the Gospel's light abroad ; 
 And, like the dawn, its cheering rays 
 
 On rich and poor were meant to fall, 
 Inspiring their Redeemer's praise 
 
 In lowly cot and lordly hall. 
 
 Then come, when in the orient first 
 
 Flushes the signal light for prayer ; 
 Come with the earliest beams that burst 
 
 From God's bright throne of glory there. 
 Come, kneel to Him who thi'ough the night 
 
 Hath watch'd above thy sleeping soul, 
 To Him w^hose mercies, like His light, 
 
 Are shed abroad from pole to pole. 
 
 Charles F, Hoffman. 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 131 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 PRAYER DURING WAR. 
 
 FATHER of mercies, heavenly friend ! 
 We seek Thy gracious throne ; 
 To Thee our faltering prayers ascend, 
 Our fainting hearts are known. 
 
 From blasts that chill, from suns that smite, 
 From every plague that harms ; 
 
 In camp and march, in siege and fight, 
 Protect our men at arms ! 
 
 Though from our darken'd lives they take 
 What makes our life most dear, 
 
 We yield them for their country's sake, 
 With no relenting tear. 
 
 Our blood their flowing veins will shed. 
 Their wounds our breasts will share ; 
 
 Oh, save us from the woes we dread, 
 Oh, grant us strength to bear ! 
 
 Let each unhallow'd cause that brings 
 
 The stern destroyer cease, 
 The flaming angel fold his wings, 
 
 And seraphs whisper Peace ! 
 
132 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Thine are the sceptre and the sword, 
 Stretch forth Thy mighty hand : 
 
 Reign Thou, our kingless nation's Lord ; 
 Eule Thou our throneless land ! 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 cxiv. 
 THE LOKD OF LIFE. 
 
 LOED of all being ! throned afar, 
 Thy glory flames from sun and star ; 
 Centre and soul of every sphere, 
 Yet to each loving heart how near ! 
 
 Sun of our life ! Thy wakening ray 
 Sheds on our path the glow of day ; 
 Star of our hope ! Thy soften'd light 
 Cheers the long watches of the night. 
 
 Our midnight is Thy smile withdrawn ; 
 Our noontide is Thy gracious dawn ; 
 Our rainbow's arch Thy mercy's sign : 
 All, save the clouds of sin, are Thine. 
 
 Lord of all life, below, above, 
 
 Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love ; 
 
 Before Thy ever-blazing throne 
 
 We ask no lustre of our own. 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 133 
 
 Grant us Thy truth to make us free, 
 And kindling hearts that hurn for Thee, 
 Till all Thy living altars claim 
 One holy light, one heavenly flame. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
 
 cxv. 
 AEMY HYMN. 
 
 OLOED of Hosts ! Almighty King ! 
 Behold the sacrifice we bring : 
 To every arm Thy strength impart, 
 Thy Spirit shed through every heart ! 
 
 Wake in our breasts the living fires. 
 The holy faith that warm'd our sires ; 
 Thy hand hath made our nation free ; 
 To die for her is serving Thee. 
 
 Be Thou a pillar'd flame to show 
 The midnight snare, the silent foe ; 
 And when the battle thunders loud 
 Still guide us in its moving cloud. 
 
 God of all nations ! Sovereign Lord ! 
 In Thy dread name we draw the sword ; 
 We lift the starry flag on high 
 That fills with light our stormy sky. 
 
134 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 No more its flaming emblems wave 
 To bar from hope the trembling slave ; 
 No more its radiant glories shine 
 To blast with woe a child of Thine. 
 
 From treason's rent, from murder's stain, 
 Guard Thou its folds till Peace shall reign ; 
 Till fort and field, till shore and sea, 
 Join our loud anthem, Praise to Thee ! 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 cxvi. 
 HYMN OF TRUST. 
 
 OLOVE divine, that stoop'st to share 
 Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear ! 
 On Thee we 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. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON. 135 
 
 On Thee we cast our burdening woe, 
 
 O Love Divine, for ever dear 1 
 Content to suffer, wliile we know, 
 
 Living and dying, Thou art near. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
 
 CXVIT. 
 
 THE CITY OF GOD. 
 
 CITY of God, how broad and far 
 Outspread thy walls sublime ! 
 The true thy chartered freemen are. 
 Of every age and clime. 
 
 One holy church, one army strong, 
 
 One steadfast high intent. 
 One working band, one harvest-song, 
 
 One King Omnipotent ! 
 
 How purely hath thy speech come down 
 
 From man's primeval youth ! 
 How grandly hath thine empire grown 
 
 Of freedom, love, and truth ! 
 
 How gleam thy watchfires through the night, 
 
 With never fainting ray ! 
 How rise thy towers, serene and bright, 
 
 To meet the dawning day ! 
 
136 LYRA SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 In vain the surge's angry shock, 
 
 In vain the drifting sands ; 
 Unharm'd, upon the eternal rock, 
 
 The eternal city stands. 
 
 Samuel Johnson, 
 
 C XVIII. 
 
 FOE DIVINE STRENGTH. 
 
 FATHEE, in Thy mysterious presence kneeling, 
 Fain would our souls feel all Thy kindling love ; 
 For we are weak, and need some deep revealing 
 Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above. 
 
 Lord, we have wander' d forth through doubt and sorrow, 
 And Thou hast made each step an onward one ; 
 
 And we will ever trust each unknown morrow, — 
 Thou wilt sustain us till its work is done. 
 
 In the heart's depths a peace serene and holy 
 Abides, and when pain seems to have its wiU, 
 
 Or we despair, — oh, may that peace rise slowly, 
 Stronger than agony, and we be stiU ! 
 
 Now, Father, now, in Thy dear presence kneeling. 
 Our spirits yearn to feel Thy kindling love ; 
 
 Now make us strong, we need Thy deep revealing 
 Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON. 137 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 THE CONFLICT OF LIFE. 
 
 ONWAED, onward, though the region 
 Where thou art be drear and lone ; 
 God hath set a guardian legion 
 Very near thee, — ^press thou on ! 
 
 L^pward, upward ! Their Hosanna 
 Eolleth o'er thee, " God is Love !" 
 
 All around thy red- cross banner 
 Streams the radiance from above. 
 
 By the thorn-road, and none other, 
 
 Is the mount of vision won ; 
 Tread it without shrinking, brother ! 
 
 Jesus trod it, — press thou on ! 
 
 By thy trustful, calm endeavour, 
 Guiding, cheering, like the sun. 
 
 Earth-bound hearts thou shalt deliver ; 
 Oh, for their sake, press thou on ! 
 
 Be this world the wiser, stronger, 
 For thy life of pain and peace ; 
 
 While it needs thee, oh, no longer 
 Pray thou for thy quick release ; 
 
138 LYRA SACRA A3IER/CANA. 
 
 Pray thou, undishearten'd, rather, 
 That thou he a faithful son ; 
 
 By the prayer of Jesus, — '^ Father, 
 Not my will, but Thine, be done ! " 
 
 Samuel Johnson. 
 
 cxx. 
 THANKSGIVING HYMN. 
 
 BEFORE the Lord we bow, 
 The God who reigns above, 
 And rules the world below. 
 Boundless in power and love. 
 Our thanks we bring 
 In joy and praise, 
 Our hearts we raise 
 To heaven's high Eang. 
 
 The nation Thou hast blest 
 
 May well Thy love declare. 
 From foes and fears at rest, 
 Protected by Thy care. 
 For this fan- land, 
 For this bright day. 
 Our thanks we pay, — 
 Gifts of Thy hand. 
 
FRANCIS S. KEY. 139 
 
 May every mountain height, 
 
 Each vale and forest green, 
 Shine in Thy word's pure hght. 
 And its rich fruits be seen ! 
 May every tongue 
 Be tuned to praise 
 And join'd to raise 
 A gratefrd song. 
 
 Earth ! hear thy Maker's voice, 
 
 Thy great Eedeemer own ; 
 Believe, obey, rejoice. 
 And worship Him alone. 
 Cast down thy pride, 
 Thy sin deplore. 
 And bow before 
 The Crucified. 
 
 And when in power He comes. 
 
 Oh, may our native land. 
 From all its rending tombs. 
 Send forth a glorious band, 
 A countless throng, 
 Ever to sing 
 To heaven's high King 
 
 Salvation's sonpf. 
 
 Francis S, Key. 
 
I40 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 '^ALL THINGS ARE YOUES." 
 
 (1 Cor. iii. 21.) 
 
 BEHOLD the grant the King of kings 
 Hath to His subjects given : 
 *^ All things are jours," it saith ; all things 
 That are in earth and heaven. 
 
 The saints are jours, to guide jou home, 
 And bless jou with their prajers ; 
 
 The world is jours, to overcome 
 Its pleasures and its cares ; 
 
 And Hfe is jours, to give it all 
 
 To works of faith and love ; 
 And death is jours, a welcome call 
 
 To higher jojs above; 
 
 AU present things are jours : whatever 
 
 God's providence decreed. 
 Is from His treasures culFd with care. 
 
 And sent to suit thj need ; 
 
 And things to come are jours ; and all 
 
 Shall ever ordered be. 
 To keep thee safe, whatever befall, 
 
 And work for good to thee ; 
 
FRANCIS S. KEY, 141 
 
 And Christ is yours — His sacrifice, 
 
 To speak your sins forgiven ; 
 His righteousness the only price 
 
 That thou canst pay for heaven. 
 
 Thus God is yours — thus reconciled, 
 
 His love your bliss secures, 
 The Father looks upon the child. 
 
 And saith, — " All things are yours.'' 
 
 Francis S. Key, 
 
 CXXII. 
 LIFE. 
 
 IF life's pleasures cheer thee 
 Give them not thy heart. 
 Lest the gifts ensnare thee 
 From thy God to part : 
 His praises speak, His favour seek, 
 Fix there thy hopes' foundation ; 
 Love Him, and He shall ever be 
 The rock of thy salvation. 
 
 If sorrow e'er befall thee, 
 
 Painful though it be. 
 Let not fear appal thee ; 
 
 To thy Saviour flee : 
 
142 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 He, ever near, thy prayer will hear, 
 And calm thy perturbation ; 
 
 The waves of woe shall ne'er overflow 
 The rock of thy salvation. 
 
 Death shall never harm thee, 
 Shrink not from his blow. 
 For thy God shall arm thee. 
 And victory bestow : 
 For death shall bring to thee no sting, 
 
 The grave no desolation ; 
 'Tis gain to die, with Jesus nigh. 
 The Rock of thy salvation. 
 
 Francis S. Key. 
 
 C XXIII, 
 
 THE SACEIFICE OF PEAISE. 
 
 LORD, 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 warm'd 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 : 
 
FRANCIS S. KEY. 143 
 
 Praise, with love's devoutest feeling, 
 
 Him who saw thy gui't-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 : 
 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. 
 
 Francis S. Key, 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN. 
 
 MY God ! my Father ! may I dare— 
 I, all debased, with sin defiled — 
 These awful, soothing names to join ; 
 Am I Thy creature and Thy child ? 
 
 Art Thou my Father ? then no more 
 My sins shall tempt me to despair ; 
 
 A father pities and forgives. 
 
 And hears a child's repentant prayer. 
 
144 LYMA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Art Thou my Father ? let me strive 
 With all my powers to do Thy will, 
 
 To make Thy service all my care, 
 And all Thy kind commands fulfil. 
 
 Art Thou my Father ? teach my heart 
 Compassion for another's woe, 
 
 And ever, to each child of Thine, 
 A brother's tenderness to show. 
 
 Art Thou my Father ? then I know 
 ^Tien pain, or want, or griefs oppress, 
 
 They come but from a father's hand. 
 Which wounds to heal, afilicts to bless. 
 
 Art Thou my Father ? then in doubt 
 And darkness when I grope my way, 
 
 Thy light shall shine upon my path. 
 And make my darkness like Thy day. 
 
 Art Thou my Father ? then no more 
 Tremble, my soul, at death's alarms : 
 
 He comes a messenger of love. 
 To bear me to a Father's arms. 
 
 My God ! my Father ! I am vile, 
 
 Prone to forget Thee, weak and blind ; 
 
 Be Thou my help, my strength, my trust, 
 Hope of my heart ! light of my mind ! 
 
 Francis S, Key. 
 
FRANCIS S. KEY. 145 
 
 CXXV. 
 
 EFFICACY OF PRAYEE. 
 {Psalm ciii. 3.) 
 
 WHEN troubles, wave on wave, assail'd, 
 And fear mj soul appall'd, 
 I knew the Lord would rescue me, 
 And for deliverance calFd. 
 
 Still onward, onward, came the flood ; 
 
 Again I sought the Lord, 
 And pray'd that He the waves would still 
 
 By His resistless word. 
 
 But still they rushing came ; again 
 
 Arose my earnest prayer. 
 And then I pray'd for faith and strength 
 
 Whate'er He will'd, to bear. 
 
 Then His felt presence was my strength, 
 
 His outstretched arm was nigh ; 
 My head He raised, my heart He cheered, 
 
 '' Fear not," said He, " 'tis I." 
 
 Strong in that strength, I rose above 
 
 The tempest's fierce alarms ; 
 It drove me to a port of peace 
 Within a Saviour's arms. 
 
 Francis S. Key. 
 L 
 
146 LYBA SACRA A31ERICANA, 
 
 cxxvi. 
 LOOK ALOFT. 
 
 IN the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale 
 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 
 
 array'd, 
 " Look aloft ! " to the friendship which never shall fade. 
 
 Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine 
 
 Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly. 
 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 tby bosom in sorrow depart, 
 ^' Look aloft ! " from the darkness and dust of the tomb 
 To that soil where afl*ection 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. 
 
 Jonathan Lawrence. 
 
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 147 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 THE BUILDERS. 
 
 ALL 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 fill'd ; 
 
 Our to-days and yesterdays 
 
 Are the blocks with which we build. 
 
 Truly shape and fashion these ; 
 
 Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
 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 ; 
 
 For the gods see everywhere. 
 
148 LIRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Let us do our work as well, 
 Both the unseen and the seen ; 
 
 Make the house, where God may dwell, 
 Beautiful, enth^e, 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. 
 
 j Henry W. Longfellow. 
 
 C XXVIII, 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 TELL me not, in mournful numbers, 
 Life is but an empty dream ! 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers. 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 149 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and time is fleeting. 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 
 StiU, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle. 
 
 In the bivouac of life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead past bury its dead ! 
 Act — act in the living present ! 
 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 
 We can make our lives sublime. 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 
 Footprints on the sands of time ; 
 
I50 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another. 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother. 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 Still achieving, still pursuing. 
 
 Learn to labour and to wait. 
 
 Henri/ W. Longfellow » 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 THE EEAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 TEEEEE is a reaper, whose name is Death, 
 And, with his sickle keen. 
 He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
 And the flowers that grow 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 kiss'd their drooping leaves ; 
 It was for the Lord of Paradise 
 
 He bound them in his sheaves. 
 
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 151 
 
 " My Lord lias need of these flowrets gaj,'^ 
 
 The reaper said, and smiled ; 
 '^ Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
 
 Where He was once a child. 
 
 " They all shall hloom 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. 
 
 Oh, 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. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 THERE is no flock, however watch'd and tended, 
 But one dead lamb is there ! 
 There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended. 
 But has one vacant chair ! 
 
152 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 The air is full of farewells of the dying, 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 The heart of Eachel, for her children crying, 
 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 
 
 Not from the ground arise, 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and vapours 
 
 Amid these earthly damps. 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
 
 May be heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 There is no death ! What seems so is transition. 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian. 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
 She is not dead — the child of our affection — 
 
 But gone unto that school 
 W^here she no longer needs our poor protection, 
 
 And Christ Himself doth rule. 
 
 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. 
 
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 153 
 
 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 unspoken, 
 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 
 
 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 suppress'd, 
 The swelHng heart heaves moaning hke 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. 
 
154 LTBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 cxxxi. 
 EVENING WORSHIP. 
 
 AGAI]N', as evening's shadow falls, 
 We gather in these hallow'd walls ; 
 And vesper hj'mn and vesper prayer 
 Rise mingling on the holy air. 
 
 May struggling hearts that seek release 
 Here find the rest of God's own peace ; 
 And, strengthen'd here by hymn and prayer, 
 Lay down the hurden and the care ! 
 
 O God, our light ! to Thee we bow ; 
 Within all shadows standest Thou : 
 Give deeper calm than night can bring ; 
 Give sweeter songs than lips can sing. 
 
 Life's tumult we must meet again. 
 We cannot at the shrine remain ; 
 But in the spirit's secret cell 
 May hymn and prayer for ever dwell ! 
 
 Samuel Longfellow, 
 
SAMUEL LONGFELLOW. 155 
 
 cxxxn. 
 "A NEW COMMANDMENT." 
 
 BENTEATH 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 ! 
 K^ot even 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. 
 
 Samuel Longfellow, 
 
 cxxxni. 
 LIFE'S MISSION. 
 
 GO forth to life, O child of earth ! 
 Still mindful of thy heavenly birth ; 
 Thou art not here for ease, or sin, 
 But manhood's noble crown to win. 
 
156 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Though passion's fires are in thj soul, 
 Thy sphit can their flames control ; 
 Though tempters strong beset thy way, 
 Thy spirit is more strong than they. 
 
 Go on from innocence of youth 
 To manly pur en ess, manly truth ; 
 God's angels still are near to save, 
 And God Himself doth help the brave. 
 
 Then forth to life, O child of earth ! 
 Be worthy of thy heavenly birth ! 
 For noble service thou art here : 
 Thy brothers help, thy God revere ! 
 
 Samuel Longfellow. 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 PEAYER FOE INSPIEATION. 
 
 HOLY 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 ! 
 
SAMUEL LONGFELLOW. i^J 
 
 Holj Spirit, power divine ! 
 Fill and nerve this will of mine ; 
 Bj Thee may I strongly live, 
 Bravely bear and nobly strive. 
 
 Holy Spirit, right divine ! 
 King, within my conscience reign ; 
 Be my law, and I shall be 
 Firmly bound, for ever free. 
 
 Holy Spirit, peace divine ! 
 Still this restless heart of mine ; 
 Speak to calm this tossing sea, 
 Stay'd in Thy tranquillity. 
 
 Holy Spirit, joy divine ! 
 Gladden Thou this heart of mine ; 
 In the desert ways I sing 
 *•' Spring, O well ! for ever spring." 
 
 Samuel Longfellow. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 THE WORD. 
 
 IN the beginning was the Word : 
 Athwart the chaos-night 
 It gleam'd with quick creative power, 
 And there was life and light. 
 
158 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Thy Word, O God ! is living yet, 
 
 Amid earth's restless strife 
 liiew 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. 
 
 Word that broke the stillness first, 
 Sound on ! and never cease. 
 
 Till all earth's darkness he made light. 
 And all her discord peace ! 
 
 Till — wail of woe, and clank of chain. 
 And bruit of battle still'd — 
 
 The world with Thy great music's pulse, 
 O Word of Love ! be thrill'd. 
 
 Till selfish passion, strife, and wrong 
 Thy summons shall have heard. 
 
 And Thy creation be complete, 
 Thou Eternal Word ! 
 
 . Samuel Longfellow. 
 
SAMUEL LONGFELLOW. 159 
 
 cxxxvi. 
 *' FATHER, I HAVE SINNED.'^ 
 
 LOYE for all ! and can it be^ 
 Can I hope it is for me ? 
 I, who straj'd so long ago, 
 Straj'd so far, and fell so low ! 
 
 I, the disobedient child, 
 Wayward, passionate, and wild ; 
 I, who left my Father's home 
 In forbidden ways to roam ! 
 
 I, who spurn'd His loving hold, 
 I, who would not be controll'd ; 
 I, who would not hear His call, 
 I, the wilful prodigal ! 
 
 I, who wasted and mispent 
 Every talent He had lent ; 
 I, who sinn'd again, again. 
 Giving every passion rein ! 
 
 To my Father can I go ? — 
 At His feet myself I'll throw, 
 In His house there yet may be 
 Place, a servant's place, for me. 
 
i6o LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 See, my Father waiting stands ; 
 See, He reaches out His hands ; 
 God is love ! I know, I see 
 There is love for me — even me ! 
 
 Samuel Longfellow. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 VESPER hymn; 
 
 NOW, on land and sea descending. 
 Brings the night its peace profound : 
 Let our vesper hymn be blending 
 
 With the holy calm around. 
 Soon as dies the sunset glory. 
 
 Stars of heaven shine out above, 
 Telling still the ancient story. 
 Their Creator's changeless love. 
 
 Now, our wants and burdens leaving 
 
 To His care, who cares for all. 
 Cease we fearing, cease we grieving ; 
 
 At His touch our burdens fall. 
 As the darkness deepens o'er us, 
 
 Lo, eternal stars arise ; 
 Hope and faith and love rise glorious. 
 
 Shining in the Spirit's skies. 
 
 Samuel Longfellow. 
 
SAMUEL LONGFELLOW. i6i 
 
 cxxxvm. 
 "BEHOLD, THE FIELDS AEE WHITE.'* 
 
 O ST ILL in accents sweet and strong 
 Sounds forth the ancient word, — 
 " More reapers for white harvest fields, 
 More labourers for the Lord ! " 
 
 We hear the call ; in dreams no more 
 
 In selfish ease we lie. 
 But girded for our Father's work, 
 
 Go forth beneath His sky. 
 
 Where prophets' word, and martyrs' blood, 
 
 And prayers of saints were sown, 
 We, to their labours entering in. 
 
 Would reap where they have strown. 
 
 O Thou whose call our hearts has stirr'd ! 
 
 To do Thy will we come ; 
 Thrust in our sickles at Thy word, 
 
 And bear our harvest home. 
 
 Samuel Longfellow. 
 
 M 
 
1 62 LYIIA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 CXXXIX> 
 
 EELIGIOX IH^ YOUTH. 
 
 IF thou dost truly seek to live 
 With all the jojs that life can give ; 
 If thy young feet would gladly press 
 The ways of peace and happiness ; 
 
 Go thou, with fresh and fervent love, 
 To Him who dwells in light ahove, 
 A^Tio sees ten thousand suns obey, 
 Yet Hstens when the lowly pray. 
 
 Cling thou to Jesus faithfully, 
 As vines embrace their guardian tree ; 
 INTor shame thy pure and lofty creed ; 
 Be His in thought, and word, and deed ; 
 
 And thou shalt breathe in this low world. 
 An eagle chain'd, with wings unfurl'd, 
 Prepared, when once thy bonds are riven, 
 To soar away, and flee to heaven. 
 
 James Gilhome Lyoiis. 
 
JAMES GILBORNE LYONS, 163 
 
 CXL. 
 THE CHRISTIAN BANNEE. 
 
 THE Christian banner ! Dread no loss 
 Where that broad ensign floats unrolFd, 
 But let Jhe fair and sacred cross 
 
 Elaze 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 \dctory. 
 
 Sound the shrill trumpet, sound, and caU 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
164 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 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, je strong and brave ; 
 
 Let not those bright folds once be fiirl'd, 
 Till that high sun shall see them wave 
 
 Above a blest but conquer'd world. 
 
 James Gilhome Lyons, 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 PATIEISTT CONTIJSrUANCE IN WELL DOING. 
 
 BEAE the burden of the present — 
 Let the morrow bear its own : 
 If the morning skj be pleasant, 
 Why the coming night bemoan ? 
 
 If the darken'd heavens lower. 
 
 Wrap thy cloak around thy form ; 
 
 Though the tempest rise in power, 
 God is mightier than the storm. 
 
 Steadfast faith and hope unshaken 
 
 Animate the trusting breast ; 
 Step by step the journey's taken 
 
 Nearer to the land of rest. 
 
THOMAS MACKELLAN. 165 
 
 All unseen, the Master walketh 
 
 By the toiling servant's side ; 
 Comfortable words He talketh, 
 
 While His hands uphold and guide. 
 
 Grief nor pain, nor any sorrow 
 
 Rends thy heart to Him unknown ; 
 
 He to-day and He to-morrow 
 Grace sufficient gives His own. 
 
 Holy strivings nerve and strengthen, — 
 Long endurance wins the crown ; 
 
 ^\Tien the evening shadows lengthen, 
 Thou shalt lay the burden down. 
 
 Thomas Mackellan, 
 
 cxLn. 
 THE SOUL'S EEFUGE. 
 
 DRAW nigh to the Holy, 
 Bend low at His throne ; 
 There, penitent, lowly. 
 Thy sinfulness own : 
 There, there if thou yearnest 
 
 For pardon and rest. 
 There, fervent and earnest, 
 Prefer thy request. 
 
1 66 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 Confess thy backsliding, 
 
 Thy weakness and fears, 
 In Jesus confiding, 
 
 There pour out thy tears : 
 Think not He will scorn thee, 
 
 Though wretched thy case. 
 His hand will adorn thee 
 
 With garments of grace 
 
 More precious than treasure. 
 
 More vast than the sea, 
 His love has no measure, 
 
 No limit to thee : 
 His easy yoke wearing. 
 
 His pleasure abide ; 
 In all thy cross-bearing. 
 
 He'll walk by thy side. 
 
 Fear not the wild clangour 
 
 That Satan may raise, 
 To God's righteous anger 
 
 But pass from thy ways. 
 Whom Christ has forgiven 
 
 Goes safely along ; 
 Till in the high heaven 
 
 He sing the new song. 
 
 Then kneel to the Holy, 
 Bend low at His throne ; 
 
 There, penitent, lowly. 
 Thy sinfiilness own ; 
 
THOMAS MACKELLAN. 167 
 
 There, soul ! if thou yearnest 
 
 For pardon and rest, 
 There, fervent and earnest. 
 
 Prefer thy request. 
 
 Thomas Mackellan, 
 
 CXLHI. 
 
 JESUS FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 JESUS ! when my soul is parting 
 From this body frail and weak, 
 And the deathly dew is starting 
 Down this pale and wasted cheek,- 
 
 Thine, my Saviour, 
 Be the name I last shall speak. 
 
 Jesus ! when my memory wanders 
 Far from loved ones at my side. 
 
 And in fitful dreaming ponders 
 
 Who are they that near me glide,- 
 
 Last, my Saviour, 
 Let my thoughts on Thee abide. 
 
 When the morn in all its glory 
 Charms no more my ear nor eye, 
 
 And the shadows closing o'er me 
 Warn me of the time to die, — 
 
 Last, my Saviour, 
 Let me see Thee standing by. 
 
1 68 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 When my feet shall pass the river, 
 
 And upon the farther shore 
 I shall walk, redeem'd for ever — 
 Ne'er to sin — to die no more, — 
 
 First, Lord Jesus ! 
 Let me see Thee, and adore. 
 
 Thomas Mackellan, 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 THE earth, aU light and loveliness, 
 In summer's golden hours. 
 Shines, in her bridal vesture clad, 
 And crown' d with festal flowers, 
 So radiantly beautiful. 
 
 So like to heaven above. 
 We scarce can deem more fair that world 
 Of perfect bliss and love. 
 
 Is this a shadow faint and dim 
 
 Of that which is to come ? 
 What shall the unveil'd splendour be 
 
 Of our celestial home. 
 Where waves the glorious tree of Hfe, 
 
 Where streams of bhss gush free. 
 
 And all is glowing in the light 
 
 Of immortality ! 
 
 Sarah A, Miles, 
 
SARAH A. MILES, 169 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 IN AFFLICTION. 
 
 I 
 
 THOU, infinite in love ! 
 Guide this bewilder'd mind, 
 WMch, like the trembling dove, 
 No resting-place can find ; 
 On the wild waters, God of light. 
 Through the thick darkness, lead me right ! 
 
 Fain would earth's true and dear 
 
 Save me in this dark hour ; 
 
 And art not Thou more near ? 
 
 Art Thou not love and power ? 
 Vain is the help of man ; but Thou 
 Canst send deliverance even now. 
 
 Though through the future's shade 
 
 Pale phantoms I descry. 
 
 Let me not shrink dismaj'd. 
 
 But ever feel Thee nigh ; 
 There may be grief, and pain, and care; 
 Eut, my Father ! Thou art there. 
 
 Sarah A, Miles. 
 
I70 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CXLYI. 
 
 OUR FELLOW SUFFEEER. 
 
 THOU who didst stoop below 
 To drain the cup of woe, 
 And wear the form of frail mortality ; 
 Thy blessed labours done, 
 Thy crown of victory won, 
 Hast pass'd from earth, pass'd to Thy home on high ! 
 
 It was no path of flowers. 
 
 Through this dark world of ours, 
 Beloved of the Father ! Thou didst tread : 
 
 And shall we in dismay, 
 
 Shrink from the narrow way, 
 When clouds and darkness are around it spread? 
 
 O Thou who art our life ! 
 
 Be with us through the strife ; 
 Thine own meek head by rudest storms was bow'd : 
 
 Raise Thou our eyes above, 
 
 To see a Father's love 
 Beam, like a bow of promise, through the cloud. 
 
 E'en through the awful gloom, 
 Which hovers o'er the tomb, 
 That light of love our guiding star shall be ; 
 
SARAH A. MILES. 
 
 171 
 
 Our spirits shall not dread 
 The shadowy way to tread, 
 Friend, Guardian, Saviour ! which doth lead to thee, 
 
 Sarah A. Miles, 
 
 CXLTLl, 
 
 FORETASTE OF HEAVEN. 
 
 WHEN, on devotion's seraph wing, 
 The spirit soars above. 
 And feels Thy presence. Father, Friend, 
 
 God of eternal love ! 
 The joys of earth, how swift they fade 
 
 Before that living ray. 
 Which gives to the rapt soul a glimpse 
 Of pure and perfect day ! 
 
 A gleam of Heaven's own hght, though now 
 
 Its brightness scarce appears 
 Through the pale shadows that are spread 
 
 Around our earthly years ; 
 But Thine unclouded smile, O God ! 
 
 Fills that all-glorious place. 
 Where we shall know as we are known. 
 
 And see Thee face to face. 
 
 Sarah A. Miles, 
 
172 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 cxLvni. 
 MY MOTHEE'S BIBLE. 
 
 THIS book is all that's left me now ! 
 Tears will unbidden start, — 
 "With faltering lip and throbbing brow, 
 
 I press it to mj heart. 
 For many generations past, 
 Here is our family tree ; 
 My mother's hands this Bible clasp'd ; 
 She, dying, gave it me. 
 
 Ah ! well do I remember those 
 
 Whose names these records bear. 
 Who round the hearthstone used to close 
 
 After the evening prayer. 
 And speak of what these pages said. 
 
 In tones my heart would thrill ! 
 Though they are with the silent dead, 
 
 Here are they living still ! 
 
 My father read this holy book 
 
 To brothers, sisters dear ; 
 How calm was my poor mother's look, 
 
 Who lean'd God's word to hear ! 
 Her angel face — I see it yet ! 
 
 What thronging memories come ! 
 Again that little group is met 
 
 Within the walls of home ! 
 
GEORGE P. MORRIS. 173 
 
 Thou truest friend man ever knew, 
 
 Thy constancy I Ve tried ; 
 Where all were false I found thee true, 
 
 My counsellor and guide. 
 The mines of earth no treasure give 
 
 That could this volume buy : 
 In teaching me the way to live. 
 
 It taught me how to die. 
 
 George P. Morris. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 I'LL WORSHIP THE LORD. 
 
 I'LL worship the Lord in His house ; 
 I'll haste with the church-going throng, 
 At His altar to offer my vows, 
 And join in the festival song. 
 
 I'll worship the Lord with the few 
 Sojourners who meet by the way ; 
 
 To muse of the Canaan in view, 
 
 And for strength of their pilgrimage pray. 
 
 I'll worship the Lord in the ring. 
 Where brothers and sisters unite ; 
 
 Every morning His goodness to sing. 
 His mercy and truth every night. 
 
174 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 But, oh ! there's a temple besides — 
 A temple the world ue'er hath known — 
 
 Where ministering silence presides, 
 And the heart is the altar alone. 
 
 To the High-priest Himself I'll draw near, 
 To His own mercy-seat in the heaven, 
 
 AMiere the voice of His love meets mine ear,- 
 ^^ Go in peace — thy sins are forgiven.'' 
 
 William H. Muhlenburg. 
 
 CL. 
 
 "I WOULD JN^OT LIVE ALWAY." 
 {Joh vii. 16.) 
 
 I WOULD not live alway — live alway below ! 
 Oh, no ; I'll not linger when bidden to go : 
 The days of our pilgrimage granted us here 
 Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer. 
 Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of 
 
 God, 
 Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod ! 
 Like a spirit unblest o'er the earth w^ould I roam. 
 While brethren and friends are all hastening home ! 
 
 I would not live alway ; I ask not to stay, 
 Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; 
 Where, seeking for rest, we but hover around, 
 Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found ; 
 
WILLIAM H. MUHLENBURG. 175 
 
 Where hope, when she paints her gay bird in the air, 
 Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair ; 
 And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, 
 Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. 
 
 I would not live alway : thus fetter'd by sin. 
 Temptation without, and corruption within ; 
 in a moment of strength if I sever the chain, 
 Scarce the victory is mine, ere I'm captive again ; 
 E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, 
 And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears ; 
 The festival trump calls for jubilant songs. 
 But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 
 
 I would not live alway ; no, welcome the tomb ; 
 Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom ; 
 Where He deign'd to sleep, I'll, too, bow my head. 
 All peaceful to slumber on that hallow'd bed ; 
 Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night. 
 The orient gleam of the angels of light. 
 With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise. 
 And chant forth their matins away to the skies. 
 
 Who, who would live alway ! — away from his God, 
 
 Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode. 
 
 Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, 
 
 And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ; 
 
 Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet. 
 
 Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, 
 
 While the songs of salvation exultingly roll. 
 
 And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul ? 
 
176 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 That heavenly music ! Hark, sweet in the air, 
 The '^ harps of the harpers " I hear ringing there ! 
 And see soft unfolding those portals of gold, 
 The King all arraj'd in His heautj hehold ! 
 Oh, give me, oh, give me, the wings of a dove. 
 To adore Him, he near Him, en rapt with His love : 
 I hut wait for the summons, I list for the word, — 
 Alleluia ! Amen ! Evermore with the Lord ! 
 
 William H. Muhlenhurg. 
 
 CLI. 
 (GENESIS VIII. 9.) 
 
 LIKE Noah's weary dove 
 That soar'd the earth around, 
 But not a resting-place ahove 
 The cheerless waters found. 
 
 Oh, cease, my wandering soul. 
 On restless wing to roam ; 
 
 All this 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 ahode. 
 
 And rove, my soul, no more. 
 
WILLIAM H, MUHLENBURG. i-j-j 
 
 There safe thou shalt ahide ; 
 
 There sweet shall he thy rest ; 
 And every longing satisfied, 
 
 With full salvation blest. 
 
 William H. Muhlenhurg. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 INFANT BAPTISM. 
 
 SAVIOUE ! who Thy flock art feeding 
 With the Shepherd's kindest care, 
 All the feeble gently leading. 
 
 While the lambs Thy bosom share ; 
 
 Now, these little ones receiving. 
 Fold them in Thy gracious arm ; 
 
 There we know, Thy word believing, 
 Only there secure from harm. 
 
 Never, from Thy pasture roving, 
 
 Let them be the lion's prey ; 
 Let Thy tenderness, so loving, 
 
 Keep them all life's dangerous way. 
 
 Then, within Thy fold eternal. 
 
 Let them find a resting-place, 
 Feed in pastures ever vernal, 
 Drink the rivers of Thy grace. 
 
 William H. Muhlenhurg. 
 N 
 
1 78 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CLHI. 
 
 EAETH IS COIS^TRASTED WITH HEAVEX. 
 
 SINCE o'er Thj footstool here below 
 Such radiant gems are strown, 
 Oh, what magnificence must glow, 
 
 My God, about Thy throne ! 
 So brilliant here these drops of light — 
 There the full ocean roUs, how bright ! 
 
 If night's blue curtain of the sky, 
 With thousand stars inwrought, 
 
 Hung like a royal canopy 
 
 With glittering diamonds fraught, 
 
 Ee, Lord, Thy temple's outer veil. 
 
 What splendours at the shrine must dwell ! 
 
 The dazzling sun, at noontide hour. 
 
 Forth from his flaming vase, 
 FUnging o'er earth the golden shower, 
 
 Till vale and mountain blaze. 
 But shows, O Lord, one beam of Thine — 
 What, then, the day where Thou dost shine ! 
 
 Ah ! how shall these dim eyes endure 
 
 That noon of living rays ? 
 Or, how my spirit, so impure. 
 
 Upon Thy brightness gaze ! 
 Anoint, O Lord, anoint my sight. 
 And robe me for that world of light. 
 
 William H. Muhlenburg. 
 
EDWIN H. NEVIN. 179 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 "I AM WITH YOU ALWAYS." 
 {Matt, xxviii. 20.) 
 
 ALWAYS with me ! always with me ! 
 Words of cheer and words of love, 
 Thus the risen Saviour whispers 
 From His dwelling-place above. 
 
 With me when with sin I struggle, 
 Giving strength and courage too, 
 
 Bidding me to falter never, 
 But to Him be ever true. 
 
 With me in the hour of sorrow, 
 
 When my heart is press'd with grief, 
 
 Pointing to a brighter morrow 
 And imparting sweet relief. 
 
 With me when the storm is sweeping 
 O'er my pathway dark and drear, 
 
 Waking hope within my bosom, 
 Stilling every anxious fear. 
 
 With me when I toil in sadness, 
 Sowing much and reaping none. 
 
 Telling me that in the future 
 Golden harvests shall be won. 
 
i8o LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 With me in the lonely valley 
 
 When I cross the chilling stream, 
 
 Lighting up the steps to glory 
 Like the ancient prophet's dream. 
 
 Always with me ! always with me ! 
 
 Pilot on the surging main, 
 Guiding to the distant haven 
 
 Where I shall be home again. 
 
 Edwin H, Nevin, 
 
 CLV. 
 
 COME UP HITHER. 
 {Rev. iv. 1.) 
 
 COME up hither ! come away ! '^ 
 Thus the ransom'd spirits sing ; 
 Here is cloudless, endless day ; 
 Here is everlasting spring. 
 
 Come up hither ! come and see 
 Heaven's glories yet untold ; 
 
 Brighter than the sun they be, 
 Eicher than the purest gold. 
 
 Come up hither ! come and dwell 
 With the living hosts above ; 
 
 Come, and let your bosoms swell 
 With their burning songs of love. 
 
EDWIN H. NEVIN. i 
 
 Come up hither ! come and share 
 
 All the sacred joys that rise, 
 Like an ocean, everywhere 
 
 Through the myriads of the skies. 
 
 Come up hither ! come and shine 
 
 In the robes of spotless white ; 
 Palms and harps, and crowns are thine ; 
 
 Hither ! hither wing your flight. 
 
 Come up hither ! hither speed : 
 
 E/est is found in heaven alone ; 
 Here is all the wealth you need ; 
 
 Come, and make this wealth your own. 
 
 Edwin H, Nevin. 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 I LONG TO BE THERE! 
 
 I HAVE read of a world of beauty, 
 Where there is no gloomy night, 
 Where love is the mainspring of duty, 
 And God the fountain of light, 
 
 And I long to be there ! 
 
 I have read of its flowing river 
 
 That bursts from beneath the throne, 
 
 And the beautiful trees that ever 
 Are found on its banks alone. 
 
 And I long to be there ! 
 
i82 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 I have read of the myriad choir, 
 
 Of the angels harping there, 
 Of their holy love that burns like fire, 
 
 And the shining robes they wear, 
 And I long to be there ! 
 
 I have read of the sanctified throng 
 That pass'd from the earth to heaven. 
 
 And there unite in the loudest song 
 Of praise for their sins forgiven, 
 
 And I long to be there ! 
 
 I have read of their freedom from sin. 
 And suffering and sorrow too, 
 
 And the holy joy they feel within 
 As their risen Lord they view. 
 
 And I long to be there ! 
 
 I long to rise to that world of light, 
 
 And to breathe its balmy air, 
 I long to walk with the Lamb in white. 
 And shout with the angels there ; 
 Oh ! I long to be there ! 
 
 Edwin H. Nevin. 
 
EDWIN H. NEVIN, 183 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 P MOUNT UP! 
 
 *' Thej shall mount up with wings as eagles." — Isaiah xl. 31. 
 
 MOUNT up on high ! as if on eagles' wings, 
 Catch inspiration from the arching skies ; 
 The soul with more seraphic music sings, 
 IK As nearer to her bright'ning home she flies. 
 
 ; Mount up on high ! earth's cares and follies spread 
 A chilling darkness o'er the life within ; 
 When mounting up, a light on us is shed, 
 
 tThat scatters care, and breaks the power of sin. 
 ■ 
 r( 
 
 lount up on high ! the floating clouds that cast 
 Their deep'ning shadows o'er our chequer' d way 
 
 Ire hut a misty veil, and quickly past. 
 While just beyond is everlasting day. 
 
 Mount up on high ! there countless treasures glow- 
 The rich inheritance of all the sons of God ; 
 
 Bright scenes of glory, never known below, 
 And there in matchless lustre spread abroad. 
 
 Mount up on high ! the loved ones gone before 
 Are there array 'd in robes of spotless white. 
 
 And, standing on the distant, golden shore. 
 Bid us ascend and view their homes of light. 
 
1 84 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Mount up on high ! for thus our spirits gain 
 A fitness for the world toward which they tend ; 
 
 Would we true likeness to the King ohtain, 
 Our thoughts must often to the King ascend. 
 
 Edivin H. Nevin. 
 
 CLvni. 
 HEAVEN! SWEET HEAVEN! 
 
 O HEATHEN ! sweet Heaven ! the home of the 
 blest, 
 Where hearts once in trouble are ever at rest, 
 Where eyes that could see not, rejoice in the light, 
 And beggars made princes are walking in white. 
 
 O Heaven ! sweet Heaven ! the mansion of love. 
 Where Christ in His beauty shines forth from above, 
 The Lamb with His sceptre, to charm and control, 
 And love is the sea that encircles the whole. 
 
 O Heaven ! sweet Heaven ! where purity reigns, 
 Where error disturbs not, and sin never stains, 
 Where holiness robes in its garments so fair, 
 The great multitude that is worshipping there. 
 
 O Heaven ! sweet Heaven ! where music ne'er dies. 
 But rich pealing anthems of glory arise. 
 Where saints with one feeling of rapture are stirr'd, 
 And loud hallelujahs for ever are heard. 
 
I 
 
 EDWIN H. NEVIN. 185 
 
 O Heaven ! sweet Heaven ! where friends never part^ 
 But cords of true friendship bind firmly the heart, 
 Where farewell shall never more fall on the ear, 
 Nor eyes that have sorrow'd be dimm'd with a tear. 
 
 Edwin H. Nevin. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 *'GOD IS MY SALVATION; I WILL TRUST." 
 (^Isaiah xii. 2.) 
 
 SAYIOUE ! happy should I be, 
 If I could but trust in Thee ; 
 Trust Thy wisdom me to guide ; 
 Trust Thy goodness to provide ; 
 Trust Thy saving love and power ; 
 Trust Thee every day and hour ; 
 
 Trust Thee as the only light 
 In the darkest hour of night ; 
 Trust in sickness, trust in health ; 
 Trust in poverty and wealth ; 
 Trust in joy and trust in grief; 
 Trust Thy promise for relief ; 
 
 Trust Thy blood to cleanse my soul ; 
 Trust Thy grace to make me whole; 
 
i86 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Trust Thee, living, dying too ; 
 Trust Thee all my journey through ; 
 Trust Thee till my feet shall be 
 Planted on the crystal sea. 
 
 Edwin H. Nevin. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 
 
 AlSrOTHEE year ! another year ! 
 The unceasing rush of time sweeps on ; 
 Whelm'd in its surges, disappear 
 
 Man's hopes and fears, for ever gone ! 
 
 Oh, no ! forbear that idle tale ! 
 
 The hour demands another strain, 
 Demands high thoughts that cannot quail. 
 
 And strength to conquer and retain. 
 
 'Tis midnight — from the dark-blue sky 
 The stars, which now look down on earth. 
 
 Have seen ten thousand centuries fly. 
 And given to countless changes birth. 
 
 And when the pjTamids shall fall. 
 And, mouldering, mix as dust in air. 
 
 The dwellers on this alter'd ball 
 
 May still behold them glorious there. 
 
ANDREWS NORTON. 187 
 
 Shine on ! shine on ! with you I tread 
 
 The march of ages, orbs of Hght ! 
 A last edipse o'er you may spread, 
 
 To me, to me, there comes no night. 
 
 Oh ! what concerns it him, whose way 
 Lies upward to th' immortal dead, 
 
 That a few hairs are turning gray, 
 Or one more year of Hfe has fled ! 
 
 Swift years ! but teach me how to bear, 
 To feel and act with strength and skill. 
 
 To reason wisely, nobly dare. 
 
 And speed your courses as ye will. 
 
 When life's meridian toils are done, 
 
 How calm, how rich the twilight glow ; 
 
 The morning twilight of a sun 
 
 Which shines not here on things below. 
 
 Press onward through each varying hour ; 
 
 Let no weak fears thy course delay ; 
 Immortal being ! feel thy power, 
 
 Pursue thy bright and endless way. 
 
 Andrews Norton. 
 
1 88 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 FORTITUDE. 
 
 FAINT not, poor traveller, though thj way 
 Be rough, like that thy Saviour trod ; 
 Though cold and stormy lower the day. 
 This path of suffering leads to God. 
 
 Nay, sink not ; though from every limb 
 Are starting drops of toil and pain ; 
 
 Thou dost but share the lot of Him 
 With whom His followers are to reign. 
 
 Thy friends are gone, and thou, alone. 
 Must bear the sorrows that assail ; 
 
 Look upward to th' eternal throne. 
 And know a Friend who cannot fail. 
 
 Bear firmly ; yet a few more days, 
 
 And thy hard trial will be past ; 
 Then, wrapt in glory's opening blaze, 
 
 Thy feet will rest in heaven at last. 
 
 Christian ! Thy Friend, thy Master pray'd 
 When dread and anguish shook His frame, 
 
 Then met His sufferings undismay'd ! 
 Wilt thou not strive to do the same ? 
 
ANDREWS NORTON. 189 
 
 Oh ! think'st thou that His Father's love 
 Shone round Him then with fainter rajs 
 
 Than now, when, throned all height above, 
 Unceasing voices hymn His praise ! 
 
 Go, sufferer ! calmly meet the woes 
 
 Which God's own mercy bids thee bear ; 
 
 Then, rising as thy Saviour rose. 
 Go ! His eternal victory share. 
 
 Andrews Norton, 
 
 CLXII. 
 CHASTE]S"ma LOVE. 
 
 MY God, I thank Thee ! may no thought 
 E'er deem Thy chastisements severe ; 
 But may this heart, by sorrow taught, 
 Calm each wdld wish and idle fear. 
 
 Thy mercy bids all nature bloom ; 
 
 Thy sun shines bright, and man is gay ; 
 Thine equal mercy spreads the gloom 
 
 That darkens o'er his little day. 
 
 Full many a throb of grief and pain 
 Thy frail and erring child must know ; 
 
 But not one prayer is breathed in vain, 
 Nor does one tear unheeded flow. 
 
I90 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Thy various messengers employ ; 
 
 Thy purposes of love fulfil ; 
 And, 'mid the wreck of human joy, 
 
 May kneeling faith adore Thy will ! 
 
 Andrews Norton. 
 
 CLxin. 
 TRUST IN GOD. 
 
 ALTHOUGH the vine its fruit deny, 
 The budding fig-tree droop and die, 
 'No oil the olive 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, 
 
 And round the empty stall ; 
 My soul above the wreck shall rise, 
 Its better joys are in the skies ; 
 
 There God is all in all. 
 

 HENRY U. ONDERDONK. 191 
 
 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. 
 
 Henry U. Onderdonk. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 ^THE SPIRIT A:N^D THE BRIDE SAY, COME. 
 
 THE 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. 
 
 Yes, whosoever will, 
 
 O let him freely come, 
 And freely drink the stream of Hfe ; 
 
 'Tis Jesus bids him come. 
 
19^ LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Lo, Jesus, who invites, 
 Declares, I quickly come : 
 
 Lord, even so ; I wait Thy hour : 
 Jesus, my Saviour, come ! 
 
 Henry U. Onderdonk. 
 
 CLXV. 
 HEAVEK 
 
 AND is there. Lord, a rest 
 For weary souls designed, 
 Where not a care shall stir the breast, 
 Or sorrow entrance find ? 
 
 Is there a blissful home. 
 
 Where kindred minds shall meet, 
 And live and love, and never roam 
 
 From that serene retreat ? 
 
 Are there bright happy fields, 
 
 Where nought that blooms shall die ; 
 
 Where each new scene fresh pleasure yields, 
 And healthful breezes sigh ? 
 
 Are there celestial streams 
 
 Where living waters glide, 
 With murmurs sweet as an gel- dreams 
 
 And flowery banks beside ? 
 
RAY PALMER. 193 
 
 For ever blessed they 
 
 Whose joyful feet shall stand, 
 While endless ages waste away, 
 
 Amid that glorious land ! 
 
 My soul would thither tend, 
 
 While toilsome years are given ; 
 
 Then let me, gracious God, ascend 
 To sweet repose in heaven ! 
 
 Ray Palmer. 
 
 CLXVI, 
 
 THE BREAD OF LIFE. 
 
 AWAY from earth my spirit turns, 
 Away from every transient good : 
 With strong desire my bosom burns, 
 To feast on heaven's diviner food. 
 
 Thou, Saviour, art the living bread ; 
 
 Thou wilt my every want supply ; 
 By Thee sustain'd, and cheer'd, and led, 
 
 I'll press through dangers to the sky. 
 
 What though temptations oft distress, 
 And sin assails, and breaks my peace ; 
 
 Thou wilt uphold, and save, and bless. 
 And bid the storms of passion cease, 
 o 
 
194 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Then let me take Thj gracious hand, 
 And walk beside Thee onward still ; 
 
 Till my glad feet shall safely stand 
 For ever firm on Zion's hill. 
 
 Bay Palmer. 
 
 CLXYII. 
 
 VENI, SANCTE SPIRITUS. 
 
 COME, Holy Ghost, in love 
 Shed on us from above 
 Thine own bright ray ! 
 Divinely good Thou art ; 
 Thy sacred gifts impart 
 To gladden each sad heart : 
 Oh, come to-day ! 
 
 Come, tenderest Friend, and best, 
 Our most delightful Guest, 
 
 With soothing power : 
 Rest, which the weary know, 
 Shade, 'mid the noontide glow, 
 Peace, when deep griefs overflow, 
 
 Cheer us, this hour ! 
 
 Come, Light serene, and still 
 Our inmost bosoms fill ; 
 
 Dwell in each breast : 
 
RAY PALMER. 195 
 
 We know no dawn but Thine ; 
 Send forth Thy beams divine, 
 On our dark souls to shine, 
 And make us blest ! 
 
 Exalt our low desires ; 
 Extinguish passion's fires ; 
 
 Heal every wound : 
 Our stubborn spirits bend ; 
 Our icy coldness end ; 
 Our devious steps attend, 
 
 While heavenward bound. 
 
 Come, all the faithful bless ; 
 
 Let all, who Christ profess, 
 
 His praise employ ; 
 
 Give virtue's rich reward ; 
 
 Victorious death accord. 
 
 And, with our glorious Lord, 
 
 Eternal joy ! 
 
 Ray Palmer. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 CHRIST LOVED UNSEEN. 
 (1 PeL I. 8.) 
 
 JESUS, these eyes have never seen 
 That radiant form of Thine ! 
 The veil of sense hangs dark between 
 Thy blessed face and mine. 
 
196 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 I see Thee not, I hear Thee not, 
 
 Yet art Thou oft with me ; 
 And earth has ne'er so dear a spot 
 
 As where I meet with Thee. 
 
 Like some bright dream that comes unsought, 
 
 When slumbers o'er me roll. 
 Thine image ever fills my thought. 
 
 And charms my ravish'd soul. 
 
 Yet, though I have not seen, and still 
 
 Must rest in faith alone ; 
 I love Thee, dearest Lord ! and will. 
 
 Unseen, but not Unknown. 
 
 When death these mortal eyes shall seal, 
 
 And still this throbbing heart. 
 The rending veil shall Thee reveal, 
 
 All glorious as Thou art. 
 
 Bay Palmer, 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 DELIGHT L\ CHRIST. 
 
 JESUS, Thou joy of loving hearts ! 
 Thou Fount of life. Thou Light of men ! 
 From the best bliss that earth imparts 
 We turn unfill'd to Thee again. 
 
RAY PALMER. 197 
 
 Thy truth unchanged hath ever stood ; 
 
 Thou savest those that on Thee call ; 
 To them that seek Thee Thou art good ; 
 
 To them that find Thee, all in all. 
 
 We taste Thee, O Thou living Bread, 
 And long to feast upon Thee still ; 
 
 We drink of Thee, the Fountain Head, 
 And thirst our souls from Thee to fill. 
 
 Our restless spirits yearn for Thee, 
 Where'er our changeful lot is cast ; 
 
 Glad when Thy gracious smile we see. 
 Blest when our faith can hold Thee fast. 
 
 O Jesus, ever with us stay ; 
 
 Make all our moments calm and bright ; 
 Chase the dark night of sin away ; 
 
 Shed o'er the world Thy holy light. 
 
 Rai/ Palmer. 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 HOW UNSEARCHABLE ARE THY JUDGMENTS! 
 
 LOK/D, my weak thought in vain would climb 
 To search the starry vault profound ; 
 In vain would wing her flight sublime, 
 To find creation's outmost bound. 
 
198 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 But weaker yet that thought must prove, 
 To search Thy great eternal plan, — 
 
 Thy sovereign counsels, born of love 
 Long ages ere the world began. 
 
 When my dim reason would demand 
 Why that, or this. Thou dost ordain, 
 
 By some vast deep I seem to stand, 
 Whose secrets I must ask in vain. 
 
 When doubts disturb my troubled breast. 
 And all is dark as night to me. 
 
 Here, as on solid rock, I rest ; 
 That so it seemeth good to Thee. 
 
 Be this my joy, that evermore 
 
 Thou rulest all things at Thy will : 
 
 Thy sovereign wisdom I adore. 
 
 And calmly, sweetly, trust Thee still. 
 
 Rai/ Palmer. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 MY FAITH LOOKS UP TO THEE. 
 
 M 
 
 Y faith looks up to Thee, 
 Thou Lamb of Calvary, 
 Saviour divine ! 
 
RAY PALMER. i99 
 
 Now hear me while I pray ; 
 Take all my guilt away ; 
 Oh, let me from this day 
 Be whoUy 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. 
 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 ransom 'd soul ! 
 
 Ray Palmer. 
 
LVBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 A SACRAMENTAL HYMN. 
 
 OBE/EAD to pilgrims given, 
 Richer than angels eat, 
 O Manna sent from heaven, 
 
 For heaven- horn natures meet ! 
 Give us, for Thee long pining, 
 
 To eat till richly fill'd ; 
 Till, earth's delights resigning, 
 Our every wish is still'd ! 
 
 O Fountain,, 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 ; 
 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 veil removing. 
 
 Thy glorious face to see. 
 
 Ray Palmer. 
 
I 
 
 BAY PALMER. 
 
 CLXxm. 
 
 THE COMFORTER. 
 I will send Him unto you." — St, John xvi. 7. 
 
 O 
 
 HOLY Comforter, 
 I hear 
 
 Thy blessed name with throbbing heart, 
 Pressed oft with sorrow, sin and fear, 
 And pierced with many a venom'd dart ; 
 Come, Messenger divine. 
 Come, cheer this heart of mine. 
 
 O Holy Comforter, 
 I know 
 Thou art not to dull sense reveal'd. 
 Thou com'st unseen as the sweet flow 
 Of the soft wind that woos the field ; 
 Breathe, Messenger divine. 
 Breathe on this soul of mine. 
 
 O Holy Comforter, 
 Thy light 
 Is light eternal and serene ; 
 Shine Thou, and on my ravish'd sight 
 Visions shall break of things unseen ; 
 Come, Messenger divine, 
 Make these bright gUmpses mine. 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 O Holy Comforter, 
 Thy love 
 O'erfloweth as the flooding sea ; 
 Give me its tenderness to prove, 
 Then shall my heart o'erflow to Thee ; 
 Come, Messenger divine, 
 Fill Thou this breast of mine. 
 
 Holy Comforter, 
 Thy grace 
 Is life and health and hope and power ; 
 By this I can each cross embrace. 
 Can triumph in the darkest hour ; 
 Come, Messenger divine. 
 The strength of grace be mine. 
 
 O Holy Comforter, 
 Thy peace, 
 The peace of God, impart and keep 
 Unruffled till life's tumults cease. 
 And all its angry tempests sleep ; 
 Come, Messenger divine. 
 Thy perfect peace be mine. 
 
 Ray Palmer, 
 
BAY PALMER. 203 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 JOY OF CONSECRATION TO CHRIST. 
 
 OH, sweetly breathe the lyres above, 
 When angels touch the quivering string, 
 And wake to chant Immanuel's love, 
 Such strains as angel-lips can sing. 
 
 And sweet on earth the choral swell, 
 From mortal tongues of gladsome lays. 
 
 When pardon'd souls their raptures tell. 
 And, grateful, hymn Immanuel's praise. 
 
 Jesus, Thy name our souls adore ; 
 
 We own the bond that makes us Thine ; 
 And carnal joys that charmed before 
 
 For Thy dear sake we now resign. 
 
 Our hearts, by dying love subdued. 
 Accept Thine oifer'd grace to-day ; 
 
 Beneath the cross, with blood bedew'd, 
 We bow and give ourselves away. 
 
 In Thee we trust — on Thee rely ; 
 
 Though we are feeble, Thou art strong ; 
 Oh, keep us till our spirits fly 
 
 To join the bright, immortal throng ! 
 
 Rat/ Palmer, 
 
204 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 IN THY LIGHT SHALL WE SEE LIGHT. 
 
 STEALING from the world away, 
 We are come to seek Thy face ; 
 Kindly meet us, Lord, we pray. 
 Grant us Thy reviving grace. 
 
 Yonder stars that gild the sky. 
 Shine hut with a borrow' d light — 
 
 We, unless Thy light be nigh. 
 Wander, wrapt in gloomy night. 
 
 Sun of righteousness ! dispel 
 
 All our darkness, doubts, and fears ; 
 
 May Thy light within us dwell. 
 Till eternal day appears. 
 
 Warm our hearts in prayer and praise. 
 
 Lift our every thought above ; 
 Hear the grateful songs we raise. 
 
 Fill us with Thy perfect love. 
 
 Bay Palmer. 
 
RAY PALMER. 205 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 
 SABBATH MORNING. 
 
 THINE hoi J day's returning 
 Our hearts exult to see, 
 And, with devotion hurning, 
 Ascend, our God, to Thee. 
 
 To-daj, with purest pleasure, 
 
 Our thoughts from earth withdraw ; 
 
 We search for sacred treasure. 
 We learn Thy holy law. 
 
 We join to sing Thy praises, 
 
 God of the sabhath day ! 
 Each voice in gladness raises 
 
 Its loudest, sweetest lay. 
 
 Thy richest mercies sharing, 
 
 O fill us with Thy love, 
 By grace our souls preparing 
 
 For nobler praise above. 
 
 Ray Palmer, 
 
2o6 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 
 INFANT BAPTISM. 
 
 WE praise Thee, Saviour, for the grace 
 That bids us with our infants come ; 
 That gives them in Thj heart a place, 
 And in Thj kingdom grants them room. 
 
 We bring them to Thine altar, Lord, 
 
 And here the holy seal apply ; 
 O make them clean, — their names record 
 
 In Thine own Book of Life on high. 
 
 When storms shall beat, or gathering foes 
 Beset the path their feet must tread, 
 
 Dear Shepherd ! let Thine arms enclose, 
 Or o'er them for defence be spread. 
 
 If Thou hast mark'd them for the tomb. 
 Ere morning brightens into day, 
 
 As in Thy bosom bear them home. 
 And gently wipe our tears away. 
 
 Or if, when gathered to Thy rest, 
 
 'Tis ours to leave them pilgrims still, 
 
 Guide Thou their steps till with us blest, 
 They reach Thine everlasting hill. 
 
 Ray Palmer. 
 
WILLIAM B. 0. FEABODY. 207 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 EVENING THOUGHTS. 
 
 BEHOLD the western evening light, 
 It melts in deepening gloom ; 
 So calmly Christians sink away, 
 Descending to the tomb. 
 
 The winds breathe low ; the quivering leaf 
 
 Scarce whispers from the tree ; 
 So gently flows the parting breath, 
 
 When good men cease to be. 
 
 How beautiful on all the hills 
 
 The purple light is shed ! 
 'Tis like the peace the Christian gives 
 
 To mourners round his bed. 
 
 How mildly on the wandering crowd 
 
 The sunset beam is cast ! 
 'Tis like the memory left behind, 
 
 When loved ones breathe their last. 
 
 And now, above the dews of night. 
 
 The yellow star appears ; 
 So faith springs in the heart of those 
 
 Whose eyes are bathed in tears. 
 
 But soon the morning's happier light 
 
 Its glory shall restore. 
 And eyelids that are seal'd in death 
 
 Shall wake to close no more. 
 
 William B, O. Peabody. 
 
2o8 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 HYMN OF JSTATUEE. 
 
 GOD of the earth's extended plains ! 
 The dark, green fields contented lie : 
 The mountains rise like holj towers, 
 
 Where man might commune with the sky ; 
 The tall cliff challenges the storm 
 
 That lowers upon the vale below, 
 Where shaded fountains send their streams, 
 With joyous music in their flow. 
 
 God of the dark and heavy deep ! 
 
 The waves lie sleeping on the sands, 
 Till the fierce trumpet of the storm 
 
 Hath summon'd up their thund'ring bands ; 
 Then the white sails are dash'd like foam, 
 
 Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, 
 Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale 
 
 Serenely breathes. Depart in peace ! 
 
 God of the forest's solemn shade ! 
 
 The grandeur of the lonely tree, 
 That wrestles singly with the gale. 
 
 Lifts up admiring eyes to Thee ; 
 But more majestic far they stand, 
 
 When, side by side, their ranks they form. 
 To wave on high their plumes of green. 
 
 And fight their battles with the storm. 
 
WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY. 209 
 
 God of the light and viewless air ! 
 
 Where summer breezes sweetly flow, 
 Or, gathering in their angry might, 
 
 The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; 
 All — from the evening's plaintive sigh, 
 
 That hardly lifts the drooping flower, 
 To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry. 
 
 Breathe forth the language of Thy power. 
 
 God of the fair and open sky ! 
 
 How gloriously above us springs 
 The tented dome, of heavenly blue. 
 
 Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! 
 Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, 
 
 Each gilded cloud, that wanders free 
 In evening's purple radiance, gives 
 
 The beauty of its praise to Thee. 
 
 God of the rolling orbs above I 
 
 Thy name is written clearly bright 
 In the warm day's unvarying blaze, 
 
 Or evening's golden shower of light : 
 For every fire that fronts the sun, 
 
 And every spark that walks alone 
 Around the utmost verge of heaven. 
 
 Were kindled at Thy burning throne. 
 
 God of the world ! the hour must come. 
 
 And nature's self to dust return ; 
 Her crumbling altars must decay ; 
 
 Her incense fires shall cease to burn ; 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 But still her grand and lovely scenes 
 Have made man's fervent praises flow ; 
 
 For hearts grow holier as they trace 
 Thy glories in the world below. 
 
 William B. O, Peabody. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 MOONEISE. 
 
 THE moon is up ! how calm and slow 
 She wheels above the hill ! 
 The weary winds forget to blow, 
 And all the world lies still. 
 
 The way-worn travellers, with delight, 
 
 The rising brightness see, 
 Revealing all the paths and plains, 
 And gilding every tree. 
 
 It glistens where the hurrying stream 
 
 Its little ripple leaves ; 
 It falls upon the forest shade. 
 And sparkles on the leaves. 
 
 So once, on Judah's evening hills, 
 
 The heavenly lustre spread ! 
 The Gospel sounded from the blaze. 
 
 And shepherds gazed with dread. 
 
JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 And still that light upon the world 
 Its guiding splendour throws : 
 
 Bright in the opening hours of life, 
 But brighter at the close. 
 
 The waning moon, in time, shall fail 
 
 To walk the midnight skies ; 
 But God hath kindled this bright hght 
 
 With fire that never dies. 
 
 William B, O. Peabody. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 THE HOLY COMMUNION. 
 
 BHEAK ye the bread, and pour the wine. 
 As ye have seen your Master do ; 
 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. 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 And, while with gratitude we dwell 
 On all His tears of love and woe, 
 
 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. 
 
 CLXXxn. 
 
 MY CHILD. 
 
 CANNOT make him dead ! 
 His fair sunshiny head 
 Is ever bounding round my study chair : 
 Yet, when my eyes, now dim 
 With tears, I turn to him. 
 The vision vanishes, — he is not there ! 
 
 I walk my parlour floor, 
 
 And through the open door 
 I hear a foot-fall on the chamber stair ; 
 
 I'm stepping toward the hall 
 
 To give the boy a call ; 
 And then bethink me that — he is not there. 
 
 I 
 
JOHN PIERPONT. 213 
 
 I thread the crowded street ; 
 
 A satcheU'd lad I meet, 
 With the same beaming eyes and colour'd hair, 
 
 And as he's running by, 
 
 Follow him with mj eye, 
 Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! 
 
 I know his face is hid 
 
 Under the coffin-hd ; 
 Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 
 
 My hand that marble felt ; 
 
 O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
 Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 
 
 I cannot malce him dead ! 
 
 When passing by the bed, 
 So long watch'd over with parental care, 
 
 My spirit and my eye 
 
 Seek it inquiringly, 
 Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! 
 
 When, at the cool, grey break 
 
 Of day, from sleep I wake. 
 With my first breathing of the morning air. 
 
 My soul goes up with joy 
 
 To Him who gave my boy ; 
 Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! 
 
 When at the day's calm close, 
 Before we seek repose. 
 
214 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, 
 
 Whatever I may be saying, 
 
 I am, in spirit, praying 
 For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! 
 
 Not there ! — WTiere, then, is he ? 
 
 The form I used to see 
 Was but the raiment that he used to wear ; 
 
 The grave, that now doth press 
 
 Upon that cast-off dress. 
 Is but his wardrobe lock'd ; — Tie is not there ! 
 
 He lives ! — In all the past 
 
 He lives ; nor, to the last. 
 Of seeing him again will I despair ; 
 
 In dreams I see him now ; 
 
 And, on his angel brow, 
 I see it written, '' Thou shalt see me there /" 
 
 Yes, we all live to God ! 
 
 Father, Thy chastening rod 
 So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 
 
 That, in the spirit-land. 
 
 Meeting at Thy right hand, 
 'Twill be our heaven to find that — he is there ! 
 
 John Pierpont. 
 
JOHN PIERPONT. 215 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 
 LICENSED TO DO WHAT? 
 
 LICENSED — to make the strong man weak, 
 Licensed — to lay the wise man low, 
 Licensed — a wife's fond heart to hreak. 
 And make her children's tears to flow. 
 
 Licensed — to do thy neighbour harm, 
 
 Licensed — to kindle hate and strife, 
 Licensed — to nerve the robber's arm, 
 
 Licensed — to whet the murderer's knife. 
 
 Licensed — thy neighbour's purse to drain. 
 
 And on his soul a shadow cast ; 
 Licensed — to heat his feverish brain, 
 
 Till madness crown thy work at last. 
 
 Licensed — like spider for a fly, 
 
 To spread thy nets for man, thy prey ; 
 
 To mock his struggles, suck him dry. 
 Then cast the worthless hulk away. 
 
 Licensed — where peace and quiet dwell, 
 To bring disease, and want, and woe ; 
 
 Licensed — to make this world a hell, 
 And FIT man for a hell below. 
 
 John Pierpont. 
 
21 6 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CLXXXIY. 
 
 EEFIXIXG FIRES. 
 
 "Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have 
 chosen thee in the furnace of affliction." — Isaiah xlviii. 10. 
 
 NOT with silver, not with gold, 
 Every gift of every mine, 
 Multiplied a thousand fold, 
 Doth our God the soul refine. 
 
 Not from broad and fertile fields, 
 
 Nor from any form of wealth. 
 That earth's face or bosom yields. 
 
 Comes '^ the souFs eternal health." 
 
 But ^' true riches '^ come from toil, 
 
 Of the muscles or the mind ; 
 And, by culture of the soil. 
 
 Or the soul, is man refined. 
 
 With the chastening power of pain, 
 
 Tossing on a sleepless bed. 
 Cares, that gnaw upon the brain. 
 
 Bleeding heart and throbbing head ; — 
 
 With our sorrows for the past. 
 
 With our fears of coming ill, 
 That their forward shadows cast 
 
 On our pathway, dark and chill ; — 
 
JOHN PIERPONT, 217 
 
 With the discipline of tears, 
 
 Over loved and lost ones shed, 
 With our loves of former years, 
 
 Dying out or wholly dead ; — 
 
 With the depths of voiceless woe. 
 
 That have whelm'd our hearts so much, 
 
 Hopes that w^ither'd long ago. 
 
 Under disappointment's touch ; — 
 
 With the agonizing pang. 
 
 Felt from folly's Parthian dart, 
 With remorse's viperous fang. 
 
 Struck into the guilty heart ; — 
 
 With our fruitless efforts, made 
 
 To attain some shining goal. 
 Labours lost, and trust betray'd. 
 
 Doth our God refine the soul. 
 
 John Pierpont. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 HYMX FOE COMMUNION. 
 
 O'EE Kedron's stream, and Salem's height, 
 And Olivet's brown steep, 
 Eolls the majestic queen of night. 
 And showers from heaven her silver light, 
 And sees the world asleep. 
 
2i8 LYE A SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 All but the cliildren of distress, 
 
 Of sorrow, grief, and care ; 
 Whom sleep, though praj'd for, will not bless ; 
 These leave the couch of restlessness. 
 
 To breathe the cool, calm air. 
 
 For those who shun the glare of day 
 
 There's a composing power, 
 That meets them on their lonely way, 
 In the still air, — the sober ray 
 
 Of this religious hour. 
 
 ^Tis a religious hour ; for He, 
 
 WTio many a grief shall bear. 
 
 In His own body on the tree, 
 
 Is kneeling in Gethsemane, 
 In agony and prayer. 
 
 Oh, holy Father ! when the light 
 
 Of earthly joy grows dim, 
 May hope in Christ grow strong and bright, 
 In all who celebrate this rite, 
 
 In memory of Him. 
 
 John Pierpont, 
 
JOHN PIERPONT. 219 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 DEDICATION HYMISr. 
 
 OTHOU, to whom in ancient time 
 The Ijre of Hebrew bards was strung, 
 Whom kings adored in songs sublime, 
 
 And prophets praised with glowing tongue ; 
 
 Not now on Zion's height, alone, 
 Thy favoured worshipper may dwell ; 
 
 Nor where, at sultry noon, Thy Son 
 Sat, weary, by the patriarch's well. 
 
 From every place below the skies. 
 
 The grateful song, the fervent prayer — 
 
 The incense of the heart — may rise 
 To heaven, and find acceptance there. 
 
 In this Thy house, whose doors we now 
 
 For social worship first unfold. 
 To Thee the suppliant throng shall bow. 
 
 While circling years on years are roU'd. 
 
 To Thee shall age with snowy hair, 
 
 And strength and beauty, bend the knee. 
 
 And childhood lisp, with reverent air, 
 Its praises and its prayers to Thee. 
 
LYEA SACEA AMEEICANA. 
 
 O Thou, to whom in ancient time 
 
 The lyre of prophet-barcls was strung, 
 
 To Thee, at last, in every clime 
 
 Shall temples rise, and praise be sung ! 
 
 John Plerpont. 
 
 CLXXxvn. 
 
 ORDINATIO^^ HYMN. 
 
 Written for the ordination of the Eev. Wm. Ware as pastor 
 of the first Congregational Church, JN"ew York, December 18, 
 1821. 
 
 OTHOU who art above all height ! 
 Our Grod, our Father, and our Friend ; 
 Beneath Thy throne of love and light, 
 We, Thine adoring children, bend. 
 
 We kneel in praise, — that here is set 
 
 A vine, that by Thy culture grew ; 
 We kneel in prayer, — that Thou wouldst wet 
 
 Its opening leaves with heavenly dew. 
 
 Since thy young servant now hath given 
 Himself, his powers, his hopes, his youth, 
 
 To the great cause of truth and heaven ; 
 Be Thou his guide, O God of truth ! 
 
LOUIS S. D. REES. 
 
 Here may his doctrine drop like rain, 
 His speech like Hermon's dew distil, 
 
 Till green fields smile, and golden grain, 
 Eipe for the harvest, waits Thy will. 
 
 And when he sinks in death, — by care, 
 Or pain, or toil, or years oppress'd, — 
 
 O God ! remember then our prayer, 
 Aud take his spirit to Thy rest. 
 
 John Pierpont. 
 
 CLXXXVIII. 
 
 THE SOUL'S ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 " I rise to seek the light." 
 
 I SAW a little blade of grass, 
 Just peeping from the sod, 
 And ask'd it, why it sought to pass 
 
 Beyond its parent clod ? 
 It seem'd to raise its timid head, 
 
 All sparkling, fresh, and bright, 
 And wondering at the question, said,- 
 ^' I rise to seek the hght." 
 
 I ask'd the eagle, why his wing 
 To ceaseless flight was given. 
 
 As if he scorn'd each earthly thing, 
 And knew no home but heaven ? 
 
LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 He answer'd, as he fix'd his gaze, 
 
 Undazzled at the sight, 
 Upon the sun's meridian blaze, — 
 
 '^ I rise to seek the light." 
 
 I ask'd the planets, why they kept 
 
 Still on their circling ways, 
 Nor, tempted by ambition, swept 
 
 Far into boundless space ? 
 They answer' d, — '' 'Tis yon glowing urn, 
 
 Restrains us in our flight ; 
 In all our wanderings we turn 
 
 To drink His floods of light. 
 
 I ask'd my soul, Wliat means this thirst 
 
 For something yet beyond ; 
 What means this eagerness to burst 
 
 From every earthly bond ? 
 It answers, — and I feel it glow 
 
 With fires more warm, more bright, — 
 '' All is too dull, too dark below, 
 
 I rise to seek the light." 
 
 Louis S. D. JRees. 
 
 I 
 
EDMUND H. SEARS. 223 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 CALM on the listening ear of night 
 Come heaven's melodious strains, 
 Where wild Judea stretches far 
 
 Her silver-mantled plains : 
 Celestial choirs from courts above 
 
 Shed sacred glories there, 
 And angels, with their sparkling Ijres, 
 Make music on 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. 
 
 '' Glory to God ! "—the lofty strain 
 
 The realm of ether fills : 
 How sweeps the song of solemn joy 
 
 O'er Judah's sacred hills ! 
 " Glory to God ! " — the sounding skies 
 
 Loud with the anthems ring ; 
 ^' Peace to the earth — good will to men, 
 
 From heaven's Eternal King ! '^ 
 
224 LIB A SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 Light on thj hills. Jerusalem ! 
 
 The Saviour now is born ; 
 More bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains 
 
 Breaks the first Christmas morn, 
 And brighter on Moriah's brow, 
 
 Crown' d with her temple -spires ; 
 Which first proclaim the new-born light, 
 
 Clothed with its orient fires. 
 
 This day shall Christian tongues be mute. 
 
 And Christian hearts be cold ? 
 Oil, catch the anthem that from heaven 
 
 O'er Judah's mountains roll'd, 
 When nightly burst from seraph-harps 
 
 The high and solemn lay — 
 '' Glory to God ! — on earth be peace — 
 
 Salvation comes to-day." 
 
 Edmund H, Sears, 
 
 cxc. 
 "FEED MY LAMBS.'' 
 
 HO ! ye that rest beneath the rock, 
 On pastures greenly growing, 
 Or roam at will, a favour'd flock. 
 By waters gently flowing ; 
 
EDMUND H. SEARS. 
 
 Hear je upon the desert air 
 
 A voice of woe come crying, 
 Where, cold upon the barren moor, 
 
 God's little lambs are dying ! 
 
 See the great Shepherd bend and call 
 
 From fields of light and glory, 
 " Go, feed My lambs, and bring them all 
 
 From moor and mountain hoary ! '' 
 Ye favoured flock, the call obey, 
 
 And from the desert dreary 
 Lead those who faint along the way. 
 
 Or wander, lost and weary. 
 
 Edmund H. Sears. 
 
 CXCI. 
 THE ANGELS' SOXG. 
 
 IT came upon the midnight clear, 
 That glorious song of old. 
 From angels bending near the earth, 
 
 To touch their harps of gold. 
 *' Peace to the earth, goodwill to men. 
 From Heaven's all-gracious King : " 
 The world in solemn stillness lay 
 To hear the angels sing. 
 Q 
 
226 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Still through the cloven skies they come 
 
 With peaceful wings unfurFd ; 
 And still their heavenly music floats 
 
 O'er all the weary world : 
 Above its sad and lowly plains 
 
 They bend on hovering wing, 
 And ever o'er its Babel sounds 
 
 The blessed angels sing. 
 
 Yet with the woes of sin and strife 
 
 The world has siiffer'd long ; 
 Beneath the angel- strain have roll'd 
 
 Two thousand years of wrong ; 
 And man at war with man hears not 
 
 The love-song which they bring ; 
 Oh ! hush the noise, ye men of strife. 
 
 And hear the angels sing ! 
 
 And ye, beneath life's crushing load, 
 
 Whose forms are bending low. 
 Who toil along the climbing way 
 
 With painful steps and slow ; 
 Look now ! for glad and golden hours 
 
 Come swiftly on the wing : 
 Oh ! rest beside the weary road, 
 
 And hear the angels sing ! 
 
 For lo ! the days are hastening on. 
 By prophet-bards foretold. 
 
 When with the ever-circling years. 
 Comes round the age of gold : 
 
LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 227 
 
 When Peace shall over all the earth 
 
 Its ancient splendours fling, 
 And the whole world send back the song 
 
 Which now the angels sing. 
 
 Edmund H, Sears, 
 
 cxcn. 
 
 "THIS DO IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME.'' 
 
 {Luke xxii. 19.) 
 
 COME, listening spirit, come ! 
 Good angels guide thy way, 
 A Saviour bids thee to His feast, 
 The gracious call obey. 
 
 No more the cold gray stone 
 
 His sepulchre doth seal, 
 'Tis roll'd away, — and He is risen, — 
 
 He stoops our wounds to heal. 
 
 Come, waiting spirit, come ! 
 
 His hallow'd board is spread, 
 Turn from the false delights of earth. 
 
 And take the living bread, 
 
 And in its strength divine, 
 
 Pass on thy pilgrim way. 
 Make Him thy pole-star through the night, 
 
 Thy sunbeam all the day. 
 
228 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Guarding with faithful heart 
 
 The promise of His love, 
 That those who share His feast below, 
 
 Shall be His guests above. 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigoumey. 
 
 cxcm. 
 
 « YE THAT FEAR THE LORD, HOPE FOR GOOD/' 
 
 (Ecdesiasticus ii. 9.) 
 
 DO the clouds around thee gather. 
 Making dark thy sohtude ? 
 Each one hath an inward shining, 
 Each one hath a silver lining, 
 
 Hope for good ! 
 
 Hath thy trusted friend deceived thee, 
 Who in sunshine near thee stood? 
 Christ hath borne that woe before thee, 
 Let His patient love restore thee, 
 Hope for good ! 
 
 Doth the child thy bosom nourished 
 Leave thee to misfortune's flood ? 
 All unpitying see thee languish ? 
 Still, amid that keenest anguish, 
 
 Hope for good ! 
 
LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 229 
 
 Should all cherish'd props forsake thee, 
 While earth's tempests threaten rude, 
 Heir of an immortal nature, 
 Looking to the true Creator, 
 
 Hope for good ! 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigourney, 
 
 CXCIV. 
 
 GOING HOME. 
 
 Suggested by the Words of a dying Friend — " Before morning 
 I shall be at Home/* 
 
 HOME ! Home ! its glorious threshold, 
 Through parting clouds I see. 
 Those mansions by a Saviour bought. 
 
 Where I have long'd to be. 
 And, lo ! a bright unnumber'd host 
 
 O'erspread the heavenly plain, 
 Not one is silent — every harp 
 Doth swell th' adoring strain. 
 
 Fain would my soul be praising 
 Amid that sinless throng. 
 
 Fain would my voice be raising 
 Tts everlasting song. 
 
230 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! they hid me hasten 
 
 To leave the fainting clay, 
 Friends ! hear ye not the welcome sound 
 
 *' Arise, and come away?" 
 
 Before the dawn of morning 
 
 These dark skies shall grow bright, 
 I shall have join'd their company 
 
 Above this realm of night. 
 Give thanks, ye weeping loved ones, 
 
 Thanks to th' Eternal King, 
 Who crowns my soul with victory. 
 
 And plucks from Death his sting. 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigoumey, 
 
 cxcv. 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 {Psalm xcii. 2.) 
 
 LORD, the shades of night surround us. 
 Homeward come Thy wandering sheep. 
 Throw Thy sheltering arm around us. 
 Safe from every danger keep, 
 
 Poor and needy. 
 Oh, protect us while we sleep. 
 
LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 231 
 
 Praise we bring for every blessing, 
 
 O'er us, like the dew-drops shed, 
 May we, Thy rich grace possessing, 
 
 Rest in peace the weary head, 
 Holy Angels ! 
 
 Fold your pinions round our bed. 
 
 When this day of life is ended. 
 
 When its hopes and fears are o'er. 
 By a Saviour's love befriended. 
 
 Guide us to the heavenly shore, 
 Oh, receive us, 
 
 Where the light shall fade no more. 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigourney, 
 
 cxcvi. 
 
 'GO YE INTO ALL THE WORLD, AND PREACH 
 THE GOSPEL TO EVERY CREATURE/' 
 
 (Mark xvi. 15.) 
 
 ONWARD! onward! men of heaven, 
 Rear the Gospel's banner high ; 
 Rest not till its light is given, 
 
 Star of every pagan sky ; 
 Bear it where the pilgrim stranger 
 Faints 'neath Asia's vertic ray ; 
 Bid the red-brow'd forest ranger 
 Hail it ere he fleets away. 
 
232 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Where the Arctic ocean thunders. 
 
 Where the tropics fiercely glow, 
 Broadly spread its page of wonders, 
 
 Brightly bid its radiance flow. 
 India marks its lustre stealing, 
 
 Shivering Greenland loves its rays, 
 Afric, 'mid her deserts kneeling, 
 
 Lifts the mingled strain of praise. 
 
 Kude in speech or grim in feature, 
 
 Dark in spirit though they be, 
 Show that light to every creature, 
 
 Prince or vassal, bond or free ; 
 Lo ! they haste to every nation, 
 
 Host on host the ranks supply, 
 Onward ! Christ is our salvation, 
 
 And your death is victory ! 
 
 Lydia Huntley Slgovrney. 
 
 cxcvn, 
 FAITH. 
 
 PEAYEE is the dew of faith. 
 Its rain -drop, night and day. 
 That guards its vital power from death 
 
 When cherish'd hopes decay. 
 And keeps it 'mid this changeful scene 
 A bright, perennial evergreen. 
 
LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY, 233 
 
 Good works, of faith the fruit, 
 
 Should ripen year by year, 
 Of health and soundness at the root 
 
 An evidence sincere ; 
 Dear Saviour ! grant Thy blessing free, 
 And make our faith no barren tree. 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigoumey, 
 
 cxcvin. 
 
 "PRAISE WAITETH FOR THEE, GOD, 
 IN ZION/' 
 
 (Psalm ]xv. 1.) 
 
 THANKS for the Sabbath's holy ray ! 
 Which like a chain of gold doth bind 
 More closely to the angel-train, 
 
 Each lowly and obedient mind, 
 While in their Father's house they meet, 
 Their prayers and praises to repeat. 
 
 Thanks for the Gospel's blessed voice ! 
 
 That lamp from sin and woe to save. 
 Which guides us through the maze of life, 
 
 And bids the darkness of the grave 
 Glow with a light that cannot die, 
 The rainbow of eternity. 
 
2 34 LYRA SACRA A3IERICANA, 
 
 Thanks for our lengthen'd span of time, 
 While many a younger one hath fled, 
 
 Like rose-bud, fading ere its prime ; 
 O Thou ! who from the voiceless dead 
 
 Kepriev'st us still, accept our praise, 
 
 And write Thy wisdom on our days. 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 
 
 THE PIOUS DEAD. 
 
 THEY dread no storm that lowers, 
 No perish'd joys bewail ; 
 They pluck no thorn-clad flowers, 
 Nor drink of streams that fail : 
 There is no tear-drop in their eye, 
 
 Nor change upon their brow ; 
 
 The placid bosom heaves no sigh, 
 
 Though all earth's idols bow. 
 
 Who are so greatly blest ? 
 
 From whom hath sorrow fled ? 
 Who find such deep unbroken rest 
 
 While all things toil ? — the dead : 
 The pious dead ! Why weep ye so 
 
 Above their sable bier ? 
 Thrice blessed, they have done with woe : 
 
 The living claim the tear. 
 
LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 235 
 
 We dream, but they awake ; 
 
 Dark visions mar our rest ; 
 'Mid thorns and snares our way we take, 
 
 And yet we mourn the blest ! 
 For those who throng the eternal throne, 
 
 Lost are the tears we shed : 
 They are the living, they alone. 
 
 Whom thus we call the dead. 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 
 
 cc. 
 
 « JESUS OF NAZARETH PASSETH BY." 
 
 WATCHER, who watchest 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's 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." 
 
236 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Sad one, in secret, bending low, 
 A dart in Thy breast, that the world may not know. 
 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 churchyard 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 darken'd vale, 
 Look unto One who can never fail. 
 He hath trod it Himself, He will hear thy sigh, 
 *^ Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigoumey. 
 
LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 237 
 
 CCI. 
 
 mistake:n^ gkief. 
 
 There the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
 are at rest:" 
 
 WE mourn for those who toil, 
 The wretch who ploughs the main, 
 The slave who hopeless tills the soil 
 
 Beneath the stripe and chain ; 
 For those who in the world's hard race, 
 
 O'erwearied and unblest, 
 A host of gliding phantoms chase : 
 Why mourn for those who rest ? 
 
 We mourn for those who sin, 
 
 Bound in the tempter's snare, 
 Whom syren pleasure beckoneth in 
 
 To prisons of despair ; 
 Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn, 
 
 Are wreck'd on folly's shore ; 
 But why in anguish should we mourn 
 
 For those who sin no more ? 
 
 We mourn for those who weep. 
 
 Whom stern afflictions bend. 
 Despairing, o'er the last long sleep 
 
 Of lover or of friend ; 
 
238 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 But they who Jordan's swelling tide 
 
 No more are call'd to stem, 
 Whose tears the hand of God hath dried, 
 
 Why should we weep for them ? 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigourney, 
 
 ecu. 
 '* AS THY DAYS, SO SHALL THY STRENGTH BE." 
 
 WEffii*^ 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 ; 
 
 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." 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 
 
LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 239 
 
 CCITI. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 WEAPT in the robe of Faith, 
 Come to the place of prayer, 
 And seal thy deathless vows to Him 
 Who makes thy life His care. 
 
 Doth He thy sunny skies 
 
 O'ercloud with tempest gloom ? 
 Or take the idol of thy breast 
 
 And hide it in the tomb ? 
 
 Or bid thy treasured joys 
 
 In hopeless ruin lie ? 
 Search not His reasons, — wait His will ; 
 
 The record is on high. 
 
 For should He strip thy heart 
 
 Of all it loves on earth, 
 And set thee naked and alone, 
 
 As at thy day of birth ; 
 
 He cannot do thee wrong, 
 
 Those gifts were His at first, — 
 Draw nearer to His changeless throne, 
 
 Bow deeper in the dust. 
 
 Calls He thy parting soul, 
 
 Unbodied, from the throng ? 
 Cling closer to thy Saviour's cross. 
 
 And raise the victor's song. 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigoumey. 
 
240 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CCIV. 
 
 LIFE EAPIDLY PASSING AWAY. 
 
 AS flows the rapid river, 
 With channel broad and free, 
 Its waters ripphng ever, 
 
 And hasting to the sea, 
 So hfe is onward flowing. 
 
 And days of oiFer'd peace. 
 And man is swiftly going 
 Where calls of mercy cease. 
 
 As moons are ever waning, 
 
 As hastes the sun away, 
 As stormy winds, complaining, 
 
 Bring on the wintry day, 
 So fast the night comes o'er us — 
 
 The darkness of the grave ; 
 And death is just before us : 
 
 God takes the life He gave. 
 
 Say, hath thy heart its treasure 
 
 Laid up in worlds above ? 
 And is it all thy pleasure 
 
 Thy God to praise and love ? 
 Beware, lest death's dark river 
 
 Its billows o'er thee roll, 
 And thou lament for ever 
 
 The ruin of thy soul. 
 
 Samuel F. Smith. 
 
SAMUEL F. SMITH. 241 
 
 CCV. 
 THE PRAYER OF AGONY. 
 
 BEYOND 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, 
 
 111 sad Gethsemane ; 
 *' Behold me here, Thine only Son ; 
 And, Father, let Thy will be done." 
 
 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. 
 
242 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 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. 
 
 Samuel F. Smith. 
 
 ccvi. 
 THE BAPTISM OF CHEIST. 
 
 DOWN to the sacred wave 
 The Lord of life was led ; 
 And He who came our souls to save 
 In Jordan bow'd His head. 
 
 He taught the solemn way ; 
 
 He fix'd the holy rite ; 
 He bade His ransom'd ones obey, 
 
 And keep the path of light. 
 
 Blest Saviour, we will tread 
 
 In Thy appointed way ; 
 Let glory o'er these scenes be shed, 
 
 And smile on us to-day. 
 
 Samuel F. Smith. 
 
I 
 
 SAMUEL F. SMITH. 243 
 
 ccvn. 
 BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 
 
 HOW calmly wakes the hallowed morn ! 
 How tranquil earth's repose ! — 
 Meet emblem of the Sabbath morn, 
 When, early, Jesus rose. 
 
 How fan*, along the rippling wave, 
 
 The radiant Hght is cast ! — 
 A symbol of the mystic grave 
 
 Through which the Saviour pass'd. 
 
 Around this scene of sacred love 
 
 The peace of heaven is shed : 
 So came the Spirit, like a dove. 
 
 To rest on Jesus' head. 
 
 Lord, meet us in this path of Thine ; 
 
 We come Thy rite to seal ; 
 Move o'er the waters, Dove divine, 
 
 And all Thy grace reveal. 
 
 Samuel F. Smith. 
 
244 LYRA SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 NATIOIN'AL HYMIS^. 
 
 MY country, 'tis of thee. 
 Sweet land of liberty, 
 Of thee I sing ; 
 Land where my fathers died, 
 Laud of the pilgrim's pride, 
 From every mountain side 
 Let freedom ring. 
 
 My native country, thee — 
 Land of the noble, free — 
 
 Thy name — I love ; 
 I love thy rocks and rills, 
 Thy woods and templed hills ; 
 My heart with rapture thrills 
 
 Like that above. 
 
 Let music swell the breeze, 
 And ring from all the trees 
 
 Sweet freedom's song : 
 Let mortal tongues awake ; 
 Let all that breathe partake ; 
 Let rocks their silence break, — 
 
 The sound prolong. 
 
SAMUEL F. SMITH. 245 
 
 Our fathers' God, to Thee, 
 Author of liberty, 
 
 To Thee we sing : 
 Long may our land be bright 
 With freedom's holy light ; 
 Protect us by Thy might, 
 
 Great God, our King. 
 
 Samuel F. Smith. 
 
 ccix. 
 THE MISSIONARY AIS^GEL. 
 
 ONWAED 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 holy trust, 
 Spread the gospel's joy. 
 
 Onward speed thy conquering flight; 
 
 Angel, onward haste ; 
 Quickly on each mountain's height 
 
 Be thy standard placed ; 
 Let thy blissful tidings float 
 
 Far o'er vale and hill. 
 Till the sweetly- echoing note 
 
 Every bosom thrill. 
 
246 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Onward speed thy conquering flight ; 
 
 Angel, onward fly ; 
 Long has been the reign of night ; 
 
 Bring the morning nigh : 
 ^Tis to thee the heathen lift 
 
 Their imploring wail ; 
 Bear them Heaven's holy gift, 
 
 Ere their courage fail. 
 
 Onward speed thy conquering flight ; 
 
 Angel, onward speed ; 
 Morning bursts upon our sight — 
 
 'Tis the time decreed : 
 Jesus now His kingdom takes, 
 
 Thrones and empires fall. 
 And the joyous song awakes, 
 
 " God is all in all." 
 
 Samuel F. Smith. 
 
 ccx. 
 CHKISTIAN FELLOWSHIP. 
 
 PLANTED in Christ, the li^dng vine, 
 This day, with one accord. 
 Ourselves, with humble faith and joy, 
 We yield to Thee, O Lord. 
 
SAMUEL F. SMITH. 247 
 
 Joined in one body may we be ; 
 
 One inward life partake ; 
 One be our heart ; one heavenly hope 
 
 In every bosom wake. 
 
 In prayer, in effort, tears, and toils, 
 
 One wisdom be our guide ; 
 Taught by one Spirit from above, 
 In Thee may we abide. 
 
 Complete in us, whom grace hath call'd, 
 
 Thy glorious work begun, 
 O Thou, in whom the church on earth 
 
 And church in heaven are one, 
 
 Around this feeble, trusting band 
 
 Thy sheltering pinions spread, 
 Nor let the storms of trial beat 
 
 Too fiercely on our head. 
 
 Then, when, among the saints in light, 
 
 Our joyful spirits shine. 
 Shall anthems of immortal praise, 
 
 O Lamb of God, be Thine. 
 
 Samuel F. Smith, 
 
248 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CCXI. 
 
 "REMEMBEE THY CREATOE/' 
 
 REMEMBEE % Creator" 
 While youth's fair spring is bright, 
 Before thy cares are greater, 
 Before comes age's night ; 
 While yet the sun shines o'er thee, 
 While stars the darkness cheer, 
 While life is all before thee, 
 Thy great Creator fear. 
 
 " Eemember thy Creator " 
 
 Ere life resigns its trust, 
 Ere sinks dissolving nature, 
 
 And dust returns to dust ; 
 Before with God, who gave it. 
 
 The spirit shall appear, 
 He cries, who died to save it, 
 
 << Thy great Creator fear." 
 
 Samuel F. Suiith, 
 
SAMUEL F. SMITH, 249 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 SABBATH EYEXING. ; 
 
 SOFTLY fades the twilight ray 
 Of the holy Sabbath day ; 
 Gently as hfe's setting sun, 
 When the Christian's course is run. 
 
 Night her solemn mantle spreads 
 O'er the earth, as daylight fades ; 
 All things tell of calm repose, 
 At the holy Sabbath's close. 
 
 Peace is on the world abroad ; 
 'Tis the holy peace of God, — 
 Symbol of the peace within. 
 When the spirit rests from sin. 
 
 Still the Spirit lingers near. 
 Where the evening worshipper 
 Seeks communion with the skies, 
 Pressing onward to the prize. 
 
 Saviour, may our Sabbaths be 
 Days of peace and joy in Thee, 
 Till in heaven our souls repose, 
 Where the Sabbath ne'er shall close. 
 
 Samuel F. Smith. 
 
ISO LYE A SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 ccxin. 
 SUCCESS OF THE GOSPEL. 
 
 THE morning light is breaking ; 
 The darkness disappears; 
 The sons of earth are waking 
 
 To penitential tears : 
 Each breeze that sweeps the ocean 
 
 Brings tidings from afar 
 Of nations in commotion, 
 Prepared for Zion's war. 
 
 Eich dews of grace come o'er us, 
 
 In many a gentle shower, 
 And brighter scenes before us 
 
 Are opening every hour : 
 Each cry, to heaven going. 
 
 Abundant answers brings, 
 And heavenly gales are blowing, 
 
 With peace upon their wings. 
 
 See heathen nations bending 
 
 Before the God we love. 
 And thousand hearts ascending 
 In gratitude above; 
 
I 
 
 SAMUEL F. SMITH, 251 
 
 While sinners, now confessing, 
 
 The gospel call obey, 
 And seek the Saviour's blessing, — 
 
 A nation in a day. 
 
 Blest river of salvation, 
 
 Pursue thy onward way ; 
 Flow thou to every nation, 
 
 Nor in thy richness stay : 
 Stay not till all the lowly 
 
 Triumphant rea<5h their home ; 
 Stay not till all the holy 
 
 Proclaim, " The Lord is come." 
 
 Samuel F. Smith, 
 
 ccxrv. 
 THE SINNER AT THE JUDGMENT. 
 
 WHEN" thy mortal life is fled, 
 When the death-shades o'er thee spread, 
 When is finish'd thy career. 
 Sinner, where wilt thou appear ? 
 
 When the world has pass'd away. 
 When draws near the judgment-day, 
 When the awful trump shall sound, 
 Say, oh, where wilt thou be found ? 
 
252 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 When the Judo-e descends in lio;ht. 
 Clothed in majesty and might, 
 When the wicked quail with fear, 
 Where, oh, where wilt thou appear? 
 
 What shall soothe thy bursting heart, 
 When the saints and thou must part ? 
 When the good with joy are erown'd, 
 Sinner, where wilt thou be found ? 
 
 WTiile the Holy Ghost is nigh, 
 Quickly to the Saviour fly ; 
 Then shall peace tliy spirit cheer ; 
 Then in heaven shalt thou appear. 
 
 Samuel F, Smith. 
 
 ccxv. 
 SELF-CONSECRATION IN BAPTISM. 
 
 WHILE in this sacred rite of Thine 
 We yield our spirits now, 
 Shine o'er the waters, Dove divine. 
 And seal the cheerful vow. 
 
 All glory be to Him Avhose life 
 
 For ours was freely given, 
 Who aids us in the spirit's strife, 
 
 And makes us meet for heaven. 
 
I 
 
 SAMUEL F. SMITH. 253 
 
 To Thee we gladly now resign 
 
 Our life and all our powers ; 
 Accept us in this rite divine, 
 
 And bless these hallow'd hours. 
 
 Oh, may we die to earth and sin, 
 
 Beneath the mystic flood ; 
 And when we rise^ may we begin 
 
 To live anew for God. 
 
 Samuel F. Smith. 
 
 ccxvi. 
 THE MISSIONARY'S FAREWELL. 
 
 YES, my native land, I love thee ; 
 All thy scenes, I love them well : 
 Friends, connections, happy country, 
 Can I bid you all farewell ? 
 
 Can I leave you, 
 Far in heathen lands to dwell ? 
 
 Home, thy joys are passing lovely — 
 Joys no stranger-heart can tell : 
 
 Happy home, indeed I love thee : 
 Can I, can I say, '^ Farewell?" 
 
 Can I leave thee. 
 Far in heathen lands to dwell ? 
 
254 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 Scenes of sacred peace and pleasure, 
 Holy days and sabbath bell, 
 
 Richest, brightest, sw^eetest treasure, 
 Can I say a last farewell ? 
 
 Can I leave you. 
 Far in heathen lands to dwell ? 
 
 Yes, I hasten from you gladly — 
 From the scenes I loved so well : 
 
 Far away, ye billows, bear me : 
 Lovely, native land, farewell : 
 
 Pleased I leave thee. 
 Far in heathen lands to dwell. 
 
 In the deserts let me labour ; 
 
 On the mountains let me tell 
 How He died — the blessed Saviour — 
 
 To redeem a world from hell : 
 Let me hasten. 
 
 Far in heathen lands to dwell. 
 
 Bear me on, thou restless ocean; 
 
 Let the winds my canvass swell : 
 
 Heaves my heart with warm emotion, 
 
 While I go far hence to dwell : 
 
 Glad I bid tbee, 
 ISTative land, farewell, farewell. 
 
 Samuel F. Smith, 
 
SAMUEL J. SMITH, 155 
 
 ccxvn. 
 A MORXIXG HYM]^. 
 
 AE/ISE, mj soul ! with rapture rise, 
 And, iiird with love and fear, adore 
 The awful Sovereign of the skies, 
 
 Whose mercy lends me one day more. 
 
 And may this day, indulgent Power I 
 
 Not idly pass, nor fruitless be ; 
 But may each swiftly flying hour 
 
 Advance my soul more nigh to Thee. 
 
 But can it be that Power divine, 
 
 Whose throne is light's unbounded blaze. 
 
 While countless worlds and angels join 
 To swell the glorious song of praise. 
 
 Will deic;n to lend a favourinf]r ear 
 When I, poor abject mortal, pray? 
 
 Yes, boundless Goodness ! He will hear, 
 Nor cast the meanest wretch away. 
 
 Then let me serve Thee all my days, 
 And may my zeal with years increase ; 
 
 For pleasant. Lord, are all Thy ways, 
 And all Thy paths are paths of peace. 
 
 Samuel J . Smith. 
 
256 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CCXVIII. 
 
 "PEACE— BE STILL." 
 
 WHEN on His mission from His home in heaven, 
 In the frail bark the Saviour deign'd to sleep ; 
 The tempest rose — with headlong fury driven, 
 
 The wave-toss'd vessel whirled along the deep : 
 Wild shriek'd the storm amid the parting shrouds, 
 And the vex'd billows dash'd the darkening clouds. 
 
 Ah ! then, how futile human skill and power, — 
 ^^ Save us ! we perish in the o'erwhelming wave,'' 
 
 They cried, and found, in that tremendous hour, 
 *^ An eye to pity, and an arm to save." 
 
 He spoke, and lo ! obedient to His will. 
 
 The raging waters and the winds were still. 
 
 And thou, poor trembler on life's stormy sea ! 
 
 Where dark the waves of sin and sorrow roll, 
 To Him for refuge from the tempest flee, — 
 
 To Him, confiding, trust the sinking soul ; 
 For, oh ! He came to calm the tempest-toss'd, 
 To seek the wandering, and to save the lost. 
 
 For thee, and such as thee, impeli'd by love. 
 He left the mansions of the blest on high ; 
 
 'Mid sin, and pain, and grief, and fear, to move, — 
 With lingering anguish and with shame to die. 
 
 The debt to Justice boundless Mercy paid. 
 
 For hopeless guilt complete atonement made. 
 
SAMUEL J. SMITH. 257 
 
 Oh ! in return for such surpassing grace. 
 
 Poor, bhnd, and naked, what canst thou impart ? 
 
 Canst thou no offering on His altar place ? 
 
 Fes, lowlj mourner ! give Him all thj heart : 
 
 That simple offering He will not disown, — 
 
 That living incense may approach His throne. 
 
 He asks not herds, and flocks, and seas of oil, 
 No vain oblations please the all-knowing Mind ; 
 
 But the poor, weary, sin-sick, spent with toil. 
 Who humbly seek it, shall deliverance find : 
 
 Like her, the sufferer, who in secret stole 
 
 To touch His garment, and at once was whole. 
 
 Oh, for a voice of thunder ! which might wake 
 The slumbering sinner, ere he sink in death ; 
 
 Oh, for a tempest, into dust to shake 
 
 His sand^built dweUing, while he yet has breath ! 
 
 A viewless hand, to picture on the wall 
 
 His fearful sentence, ere the curtain fall. 
 
 Child of the dust ! from torpid ruin rise, — 
 Be earth's delusions from thy bosom hurl'd ; 
 
 And strive to measure with enlighten'd eyes 
 The dread importance of the eternal world. 
 
 The shades of night are gathering round thee fast, — 
 
 Arise to labour ere thy day be past ! 
 
 In darkness tottering on the slippery verge 
 Of frail existence, soon to be no more ; 
 
 s 
 
258 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Death's rude, tempestuous, ever-nearing surge 
 
 Shall quickly dash thee from the sinking shore. 
 But, ah ! the secrets of the following day 
 What tongue may utter, or what eye survey ! 
 
 Oh ! think in time, then, what the meek inherit, — 
 What the peace-maker's, what the mourner's part ; 
 
 The allotted portion of the poor in spirit,— 
 The promised vision of the pure in heart. 
 
 For yet in Gilead there is balm to spare, 
 
 And, prompt to succour, a Physician there. 
 
 Samuel J, Smith. 
 
 ccxix. 
 CHRIST^S VOICE IN THE SOUL. 
 
 MID the mad whirl of life, its dim confusion, 
 Its jarring discords and poor vanity, 
 Breathing like music over troubled waters, 
 
 What gentle voice, O Christian, speaks to thee ? 
 
 It is a stranger — not of earth or earthly ; 
 
 By the serene, deep fulness of that eye, 
 By the calm, pitying smile, the gesture lowly. 
 
 It is thy Saviour as He passeth by. 
 
 '^ Come, come," He saith, " into a desert place, 
 Thou who art weary of life's lower sphere ; 
 
 Leave its low strifes, forget its babbling noise ; 
 
 Come thou with Me — all shall be bright and clear. 
 
I 
 
 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, 259 
 
 " Art thou bewilder'd by contending voices, 
 Sick, to thy soul, of party noise and strife? 
 
 Come, leave it all, and seek that solitude 
 Where thou shalt learn of Me a purer life. 
 
 ^' When, far behind, the world's great tumult dieth, 
 Thou shalt look back and wonder at its roar ; 
 
 But its far voice shall seem to thee a dream, 
 Its power to vex thy holier Hfe be o'er. 
 
 *' There shalt thou learn the secret of a power, 
 Mine to bestow, which heals the ills of living ; 
 
 To overcome by love, to live by prayer. 
 
 To conquer man's worst evils by forgiving." 
 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe. 
 
 ccxx. 
 "WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE." 
 
 STILL, still with Thee, when purple morning 
 breaketh, ' 
 When the bird waketh and the shadows flee ; 
 Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight, 
 Dawns the sweet consciousness, / 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 morn. 
 
26o LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 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. 
 
 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 new day, nearness to 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, 
 
 Harriet Beecher St owe. 
 
 CCXXI. 
 
 "ABIDE IN ME, AND I IN YOU." 
 The SouVs Bejply. 
 
 THAT mystic word of Thine, O Sovereign Lord ! 
 Is all too pure, too high, too deep for me ; 
 W^eary with striving, and with longing faint, 
 I breathe it back again in prayer to Thee. 
 
» 
 
 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 261 
 
 Abide in me, I pray, and I in Thee ; 
 
 From this good hour, oh, leave me never more ; 
 Then shall the discord cease, the wound be heal'd, 
 
 The lifelong bleeding of the soul be o'er. 
 
 Abide in me ! o'ershadow by Thy love 
 
 Each half-form'd 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. 
 
 The soul alone, like a neglected harp, 
 
 Grows out of tune, and needs a 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, hush'd, 
 Own'd the divine enchantment of the hour. 
 
 These were but seasons beautiful and rare — 
 
 Abide in me, and they shall ever be ! 
 Fulfil at once Thy precept and my prayer. 
 
 Come and abide in me, and I in Thee. 
 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe. 
 
262 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 ccxxn, 
 THE GOD OF PEACE. 
 
 WHEN winds are raging o'er the upper ocean, 
 And billows wild contend with angry roar, 
 'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion, 
 That peaceftd stillness reigneth evermore. 
 
 Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth, 
 And silver waves chime ever peacefully. 
 
 And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he 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 
 
 Die in hush'd stillness at its peaceful door. 
 
 Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth, 
 
 And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully, 
 
 And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he 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 — for ever and for ever. 
 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe. 
 
WILLIAM BINGHAM TAPPAN. 263 
 
 ccxxm. 
 THE MOKNING STAE. 
 
 BENIGHTED on the troubled main, 
 "V^Tiile stormy terrors clothe the sky ; 
 The trembling voyager strives in vain, 
 
 And nought but dark despair is nigh ; 
 When, lo ! a gem of peerless Hght, 
 
 With radiant splendour shines afar ; 
 And, through the clouds of darkest night, 
 Appears the Bright and Morning Star. 
 
 With joy he greets the cheering ray 
 
 That beams on ocean's weary breast ; 
 Precursor of a smiling day. 
 
 It lulls his fears to peaceful rest ; 
 No more in peril doth he roam, 
 
 For night and danger now are far ; 
 With steady helm he enters home. 
 
 His guide the Bright and Morning Star. 
 
 Thus when affliction's billows roll, 
 
 And waves of sorrow and of sin 
 Beset the fearful, weeping soul. 
 
 And all is dark and drear within : 
 'Tis Jesus, whispering strains of peace, 
 
 Drives every doubt and fear afar ; 
 He bids the raging tempest cease 
 
 And shines the Bright and Morning Star, 
 
 William Bingham Tappan. 
 
264 LYBA SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 CCXXIV. 
 
 WOESHIP. 
 
 HOLY be this, as was the place, 
 To him, of Paclan-aram known, 
 Where Abraham's God reveal'd His face, 
 And caught the pilgrim to the throne. 
 O ! how transporting was the glow 
 
 That thrill'd his bosom, mix'd with fear, 
 ** Lo ! the Eternal walks below — 
 The Highest tabernacles here ! " 
 
 Be ours, when faith and hope gTOw dim, 
 
 The glories that the patriarch saw ; 
 And when we faint, may we, hke him, 
 
 Fresh vigour from the vision draw. 
 Heaven's lightning hover'd o'er his head, 
 
 And flash'd new splendours on his view. 
 Ereak forth, thou Sun ! and freely shed 
 
 Glad rays upon our Bethel too. 
 
 'Tis ours to sojourn in a waste, 
 
 Barren and cold as Shinar's ground ; 
 No fruits of Eshcol charm the taste, 
 
 No streams of Meribah are found ; 
 But Thou can'st bid the desert bud 
 
 With more than Sharon's rich display ; 
 And Thou can'st bid the cooling flood 
 
 Gush from the rock and cheer the way. 
 
I 
 
 WILLIAM BINGHAM TAPPAN. 265 
 
 We tread the path Thy people trod, 
 
 Alternate sunshine, bitter tears ; 
 Go Thou before, and with Thy rod 
 
 Divide the Jordan of our fears. 
 Be ours the song of triumph given — 
 
 AngeHc themes to lips of clay ; 
 And ours the holy harp of heaven, 
 
 Whose strain dissolves the soul away. 
 
 William Bingham Tappan. 
 
 ccxxv. 
 THE HOUR OF PEACEFUL REST. 
 
 THEEE is an hour of peaceful rest 
 To mourning wanderers given ; 
 There is a joy for souls distress'd — 
 A balm for every wounded breast — 
 'Tis found alone in heaven. 
 
 There is a soft, a downy bed, 
 
 Far from these shades of even — 
 A couch for weary mortals spread. 
 Where they may rest the aching head, 
 
 And find repose in heaven. 
 
 There is a home for weary souls 
 
 By sin and sorrow driven ; 
 When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals, 
 Where storms arise, and ocean rolls. 
 
 And all is drear — 'tis heaven. 
 
266 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 William Bingham Tappan. 
 
 CCXXVI. 
 
 GETHSEMANE. 
 
 "nr^IS midnight — and on Olives' brow 
 X The star is dimm'd that lately shone ; 
 
 'Tis midnight — in the garden now 
 The suffering Saviour prays alone. 
 
 'Tis midnight — and, from all removed, 
 Immanuel wrestles, lone, with fears ; 
 
 E'en the disciple that He loved 
 
 Heeds not his Master's grief and tears. 
 
 'Tis midnight — and for others' guilt 
 The Man of Sorrows weeps in blood ; 
 
 Yet He, that hath in anguish knelt. 
 Is not forsaken by His God. 
 
WILLIAM BINGHAM TAPPAN. 267 
 
 'Tis midnight — from the heavenly plains 
 Are borne the songs that angels know ; 
 
 Unheard by mortals are the strains 
 That sweetly soothe the Saviour's woe. 
 William Bingham Tappan, 
 
 ccxxvn. 
 "THY WILL BE DONE." 
 
 WHEN sorrow casts its shade around, 
 And pleasure seems our course to shun, 
 When nought but grief and care is found, 
 'Tis sweet to say, '' Thy will be done." 
 
 When sickness lends its pallid hue, 
 And every dream of bliss has flown, 
 
 When quickly from the fading view 
 
 Eecede the joys that once were known, — 
 
 The soul resign'd will yet rejoice. 
 
 Though life's last sand has nearly run ; 
 
 With humble faith and trembling voice. 
 It still replies, '' Thy will be done." 
 
 ^Tien call'd to mourn the early doom 
 
 Of one afi'ection held most dear, 
 While drops upon the closing tomb 
 
 The silent, the expressive tear ; 
 
268 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Though love its tribute sad will pay, 
 And earthly streams of solace shun, 
 
 Still, still the gracious soul will say. 
 In lowly dust, '^ Thy will be done." 
 
 Whatever, O Lord, Thou hast design' d 
 To bring my soul to Thee, its trust, 
 
 If mercies or afflictions kind. 
 
 For all Thy dealings. Lord, are just. 
 
 Take all ! but grant in goodness free, 
 
 The love that ne'er Thy stroke would shun, 
 
 Support this heart and strengthen me 
 To say in faith, '' Thy will be done." 
 
 William Bingham Tappan. 
 
 ccxxYni. 
 SATUEDAY EVENING. 
 
 WHILE the solemn note of time 
 Warns me of his hasty tread ; 
 While the silent march of days. 
 
 Tells — another week hath fled ; 
 While the busy hum of toil. 
 
 Works of care and labour cease ; 
 While the six days' weary strife 
 Yields to holy, Avelcome peace, — 
 
I 
 
 THEODORE TILT ON. 269 
 
 Let me all the past review ; 
 
 Much hath Heaven bestow'd on me, 
 Much have I to folly given ; 
 
 God ! what have I done for Thee ? 
 Nearer to my final hour, 
 
 Am I seal'd with Jesus' blood ? 
 Nearer to eternity, 
 
 Am I nearer to my God ? 
 Hasten, pilgrim ! on thy way, 
 
 Gird thee at the martyrs' shrine ; 
 Hasten, pilgrim ! why delay ? 
 
 Immortality is thine. 
 
 William Bingham Tappan. 
 
 ccxxix. 
 
 THE VICTORY OF LIFE. 
 
 ONCE made search, in hope to find 
 Abiding peace of mind. 
 
 I toird for riches — as if these 
 
 Could bring the spirit ease ! 
 
 I tui-n'd aside to books and lore, 
 Still baffled as before. 
 
 I tasted then of love and fame, 
 But huno;er'd still the same. 
 
270 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 I chose the sweetest paths I knew, 
 Where only roses grew. 
 
 Then fell a voice from out the skies, 
 With message in this wise : 
 
 ^^ Oh, my disciple ! is it meet 
 That roses tempt thy feet ? 
 
 Thy Master, even for His head, 
 Had only thorns instead ! '' 
 
 Then, drawn as by a heavenly grace, 
 I left the flowery place, 
 
 And walk'd 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 sufi'er'd unto strength. 
 
 Nor ever were my trials done. 
 
 But straightway new begun. 
 
 For when I learn'd to cast disdain 
 Upon some special pain. 
 
THEODORE TILT ON. 271 
 
 He gave me sharper strokes to bear, 
 And pierced me to despair : 
 
 Until, so sorely was I prest, 
 I broke beneath the test, 
 
 And fell within the tempter's power. 
 Yet in the evil hour. 
 
 Bound hand and foot, I cried, " Lord ! 
 Break Thou the threefold cord ! " 
 
 And while my soul was at her prayer, 
 He snatch'd me from the snare. 
 
 I then approach'd the gate of death, 
 Where, struggling for my breath, 
 
 I smote my coward knees in fear. 
 Aghast to stand so near ! 
 
 Yet when I shiver 'd in the gloom, 
 Down-gazing in the tomb, 
 
 " 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 crush' d me with a blow 
 Of more than mortal woe, 
 
272 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 Till bitter death had been relief 
 To my more bitter grief. 
 
 Yet, bleeding, panting in the dust, 
 I knew His judgment just ; 
 
 And, as a lark mth broken wing 
 Sometimes has heart to sing, 
 
 So I, all shatter'd, 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 I 
 And finds the victory won. 
 
 Theodore Tilton. 
 
 ccxxx. 
 DYING, YET LIVING. 
 
 SHE died, yet is not dead ! 
 Ye saw a daisy on her tomb : 
 It bloom'd to die— she died to bloom ; 
 Her summer hath not sped. 
 
THEODORE TILTO^. 273 
 
 She died, yet is not dead ! 
 
 Ye saw her jewels all unset ; 
 
 But God let fall a coronet 
 To crown her ransom'd head. 
 
 She died, yet is not dead ! 
 
 Ye saw her gazing toward a sky 
 Whose lights are shut from mortal eye ; 
 
 She lingered, yearn'd and fled. 
 
 She died, yet is not dead ! 
 
 Through peai'ly gate, on golden street, 
 She went her way with shining feet : 
 
 Gro ye, and thither tread ! 
 
 Theodore Tilton. 
 
 ccxxxi. 
 THE FELLOWSHIP OF SUFFERING. 
 
 THY 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 ? 
 
 I 
 
274 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 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, 
 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, likes roses blown. 
 
 Bring sweetness in their breath. 
 
 Arise not, O my Dead I — 
 
 As one whom Mary sought, 
 
 And found an empty tomb instead, 
 Her spices all for nought, — 
 
 I 
 
ST. GEORGE TUCKER. 275 
 
 O Lord, not so depart 
 
 From mj enshrining breast, 
 But lie anointed in a heart 
 
 That by Thy death is blest. 
 
 Or if Thou shalt arise, 
 
 Abandon not Thy grave, 
 But bear it with Thee to the skies, — 
 
 A heart that Thou shalt save ! 
 
 Theodore Tilton, 
 
 CC XXXII. 
 
 DAYS OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 DAY^S of my youth, ye have ghded away : 
 Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray : 
 Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more : 
 Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrow'd all o'er : 
 Strength of my youth, all your vigour is gone : 
 Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are flown. 
 
 Days of my youth, I wish not your recall : 
 Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall : 
 Eyes of my youth, you much evil have seen : 
 Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears you have been : 
 Thoughts of my youth, you have led me astray : 
 Strength of my youth, why lament your decay ? 
 
276 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 Days of my age, ye will shortly be past : 
 Pains of my age, yet a \Yhile you can last : 
 Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight : 
 Eyes of my age, be religion your light : 
 Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod : 
 Hopes of my age, be ye fix'd on your God. 
 
 St. George Tucker. 
 
 CCXXXIII. 
 
 "I WAIT FOE THE LORD; MY SOUL 
 DOTH WAIT." 
 
 FATHEE ! I wait Thy word. The sun doth stand 
 Beneath the mingling line of night and day, 
 A listening servant waiting Thy command, 
 To roll rejoicing on its silent way. 
 
 The tongue of time abides the appointed hour, 
 Till on our ear its solemn warnings fall ; 
 
 The heavy cloud withholds the pelting shower. 
 Then every drop speeds onward at Thy call. 
 
 The bird reposes on the yielding bough, 
 
 With breast un swollen by the tide of song ; — 
 
 So does my spirit wait Thy presence now, 
 To pour Thy praise in quickening life along. 
 
 Jones Very. 
 
JONES VERY. 277 
 
 CC XXXIV. 
 
 THE CHILD OF GOD. 
 
 FATHEE ! there is no change to live with Thee, 
 Save that in Thee I grow from day to day ; 
 In each new word I hear, each thing I see, 
 I but rejoicing hasten on my way. 
 
 The morning comes, with blushes overspread. 
 And I, new-waken'd, find a morn within ; 
 
 And in its modest dawn around me shed. 
 
 Thou hear'st the prayer and the ascending hymn. 
 
 Hour follows hour, the lengthening shades descend ; 
 
 Yet they could never reach as far as me. 
 Did not Thy love its kind protection lend. 
 
 That I, Thy child, might sleep in peace with Thee. 
 
 Jones Very. 
 
 ccxxxv. 
 HEAVEN NOT AFAR OFF. 
 
 FATHEE ! Thy wonders do not singly stand, 
 Nor far removed where feet have seldom 
 stray'd ; 
 Around us ever lies the enchanted land. 
 
 In marvels rich to Thine own sons displayed. 
 
278 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 In finding Thee are all things round us found ; 
 
 In losing Thee are all things lost beside; 
 Ears have we, but in vain sweet voices sound, 
 
 And to our eyes the vision is denied. 
 
 Open our eyes that we that world may see ! 
 
 Open our ears that we Thy voice may hear ! 
 And in the spirit-land may ever be, 
 
 And feel Thy presence with us always near. 
 
 Jones Very. 
 
 ccxxxvi. 
 '• AS YE SOW, SO SHALL YE REAP/' 
 
 THE bud will soon become a flower, 
 The flower become a seed ; 
 Then seize, O youth ! the present hour, — 
 Of that thou hast most need. 
 
 Do thy best always, — do it now ; 
 
 Eor in the present time, 
 As in the furrows of a plough, 
 
 Fall seeds of good or crime. 
 
 The sun and rain will ripen fast 
 Each seed that thou hast sown ; 
 
 And every act and word at last 
 By its own fruit be known. 
 
JONES VERY. 279 
 
 And soon the harvest of thy toil 
 
 Eejoicing thou shalt reap ; 
 Or o'er thy wild, neglected soil 
 
 Go forth in shame to weep. 
 
 Jones Very. 
 
 CCXXXVII. 
 
 THE ARK. 
 
 THERE is no change of time and place with Thee ; 
 Where'er I go, with me 'tis still the same, 
 Within Thy presence I rejoice to he, 
 
 And always hallow Thy most holy I^ame ; 
 The world doth ever change, there is no peace 
 
 Among the shadows on its storm-vex'd breast ; 
 With every breath the frothy waves increase, 
 
 They toss up mire and dirt, they cannot rest ; 
 I thank Thee that within Thy strong-built ark 
 
 My soul across the uncertain sea can sail. 
 And, though the night of death be long and dark, 
 
 My hope in Christ shall reach within the veil ; 
 And to the promised haven steady steer, 
 Whose rest to those who love is ever near. 
 
 Jones Very. 
 
28o LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 *^ VISIT ME WITH THY SALVATION." 
 
 WILT 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 ; 
 
 xAnd 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. 
 
 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. 
 
HENRY WARE, JUN. 281 
 
 CC XXXIX. 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 FATHEE of earth and heaven, 
 Whose arm upholds creation, 
 To Thee we raise the voice of praise, 
 
 And hend in adoration. 
 We praise the power that made us, 
 We praise the love that hlesses ;* 
 WTiile every day that rolls away 
 Thy gracious care confesses. 
 
 Though trial and affliction 
 
 May cast their dark shade o'er us, 
 Thy love doth throw a heavenly glow 
 
 Of light on all before us. 
 That love has smiled fi^om heaven 
 
 To cheer our path of sadness. 
 And leads the way, through earth's dull day. 
 
 To realms of endless gladness. 
 
 That light of love and glory 
 
 Has shone through Christ, the Saviour, 
 The holy Guide, who lived and died 
 
 That we might live for ever ! 
 
282 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 And since Thy great compassion 
 
 Thus brings Thy children near Thee, 
 
 May we to praise devote our days, 
 And love as well as fear Thee. 
 
 And when death's final summons 
 
 From earth's dear scenes shall move us. 
 From friends, from foes, from joys, from woes, 
 
 From all that know and love us. 
 Oh ! then let hope attend us ; 
 
 Thy peace to us be given : 
 That we may rise above the skies. 
 
 And sing Thy praise in heaven. 
 
 Henry Ware, Jun. 
 
 CCXL. 
 
 HYMN IN SICKNESS. 
 
 FATHER, Thy gentle chastisement 
 Falls kindly on my burden'd soul ; 
 I see its merciful intent. 
 
 To warn me back to Thy control ; 
 And pray that, while I kiss the rod, 
 I may find perfect peace with God. 
 
 The errors of my heart I know ; 
 I feel my deep infirmities ; 
 
 1 
 
HENRY WARE, JUN. 283 
 
 For often virtuous feelings glow, 
 
 And holy purposes arise ; 
 But, like the morning clouds, decay, 
 As empty, though as fair, as they. 
 
 Forgive the weakness I deplore. 
 And let Thy peace abound in me. 
 
 That I may trust my heart no more. 
 But wholly cast myself on Thee. 
 
 O, let my Father's strength be mine, 
 And my devoted life be Thine. 
 
 Henry Ware, Jun, 
 
 CCXLI. 
 
 ORDINATION HYMN. 
 
 Written for the Ordination of the Eev. Jared Sparks, D.D. 
 over the first Unitarian Church, Baltimore, 1819, 
 
 GEEAT God, the followers of Thy Son, 
 We bow before Thy mercy-seat. 
 To worship Thee, the holy One, 
 And pour our wishes at Thy feet. 
 
 O, grant Thy blessing here to-day ! 
 
 O, give Thy people joy and peace ! 
 The tokens of Thy love display, 
 
 And favour that shall never cease. 
 
284 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 We seek the truth that Jesus brought ; 
 
 His path of Hght we long to tread ; 
 Here be His holy doctrines taught, 
 
 And here their purest influence shed. 
 
 May faith, and hope, and love abound ; 
 
 Our sins and errors be forgiven ; 
 And we, in Thy great day, be found 
 
 Children of God and heirs of heaven. 
 
 Henri/ Ware, Jun. 
 
 CCXLII. 
 
 FAMILY MEETING. 
 
 IN this glad hour, when children meet. 
 And home with them their children bring, 
 Our hearts with one affection beat, 
 One song of praise our voices sing. 
 
 For all the faithful, loved and dear, 
 
 AVhom Thou so kindly. Lord, hast given ; 
 
 For those who still are with us here. 
 
 And those who wait for us in heaven ; — 
 
 For every past and present joy. 
 
 For honour, competence, and health, 
 
 For hopes which time may not destroy, — 
 Our souls' imperishable wealth ; — 
 
 J 
 
HENRY WARE, JUN. 285 
 
 For all, accept our humble praise ; 
 
 Still bless us, Father, bj Thy love ; 
 And when are closed our mortal days, 
 
 Unite us in one home above. 
 
 Henry Ware, Jun. 
 
 CCXLIIT. 
 
 "EVEN SO IN CHRIST SHALL ALL BE 
 MADE ALIVE.'^ 
 
 LIFT your glad voices in triumph on high. 
 For Jesus hath risen, and man cannot 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 live 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 ; 
 But Jesus hath cheer 'd the dark valley of sorrow, 
 
 And bade us, immortal, to heaven ascend. 
 Lift, then, your voices in triumph on high, 
 Jesus hath risen, and man shall not die. 
 
 Henry Ware, Jun. 
 
286 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 CCXXIV. 
 
 A CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION. 
 
 LIKE Israel's hosts to exile driven, 
 Across the flood the pilgrims fled ; 
 Their hands bore up the ark of heaven, 
 
 And heaven their trusting footsteps led, 
 Till on these savage shores they trod, 
 And won the wilderness for God. 
 
 There, where their weary ark found rest, 
 
 Another Zion proudh^ grew, 
 In more than Judah's glory dress'd. 
 
 With light that Israel never knew. 
 From sea to sea her empire spread, 
 Her temple heaven, and Christ her head. 
 
 Then let the grateful church, to-day, 
 Its ancient rite with gladness keep ; 
 
 Our fathers' God ! their children pray 
 Thy blessing, though the fathers sleep. 
 
 O, bless, as Thou hast bless'd the past ! 
 
 While earth, and time, and heaven shall last. 
 
 Henry Ware, Jun. 
 
HENRY WARE, JUN. 287 
 
 CCXLV. 
 
 ON LAYING A CORNEE STONE OF A CHURCH. 
 
 OTHOU, in whom alone is found 
 The strength by which our toil is blest, 
 Upon this consecrated ground 
 
 Xow bid Thy cloud of glory rest. 
 
 In Thy great name we place this stone ; 
 
 To Thy great truth these walls we rear : 
 Long may they make Thy glory known, 
 
 And long our Saviour triumph here. 
 
 And while Thy sons, from earth apart, 
 
 Here seek the truth from heaven that sprung, 
 
 Fill with Thy Spirit every heart. 
 
 With living fire touch every tongue. 
 
 Lord, feed Thy church with peace and love ; 
 
 Let sin and error pass away, 
 Till truth's full influence from above 
 
 Kejoiee the earth with cloudless day. 
 
 Henry Ware, Jun. 
 
288 LYRA SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 CCXLVI. 
 
 P H A Y E E. 
 
 TO prayer, to prayer; — for the morning breaks, 
 And earth in her Maker's smile awakes : 
 His light is on all below and above, 
 The light of gladness and life and love. 
 Oh, then, on the breath of this early air, 
 Send upward the incense of grateful prayer. 
 
 To prayer — for the glorious sun is gone. 
 
 And the gathering darkness of night comes on : 
 
 Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows 
 
 To shade the couch where His children repose. 
 
 Then kneel while the watching stars are bright, 
 
 And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night. 
 
 To prayer — for the day that God has blest 
 Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest : 
 It speaks of Creation's early bloom ; 
 It speaks of the Prince that burst the tomb. 
 Then summon the spirit's exalted powers. 
 And devote to heaven the hallow'd hours. 
 
 There are smiles and tears in that gathering band, 
 WTiere the heart is pledged with the trembling hand. 
 What trj'ing thoughts in her bosom swell, 
 As the bride bids parent and home farewell ! 
 
 I 
 
HENRY WARE, JUN. 
 
 Kneel down by the side of the tearful there, 
 And strengthen the fateful hour with prayer. 
 
 There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes, 
 
 For her new-born infant beside her lies : 
 
 Oh, hour of bliss ! when the heart overflows 
 
 With a rapture a mother only knows : 
 
 Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ; 
 
 Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care. 
 
 Kneel dow^n by the dying sinner's side. 
 And pray for his soul through Him who died. 
 Drops of anguish are thick on his brow : 
 Oh, what is earth and its pleasures now ? 
 And what shall assuage his dark despair. 
 But the penitent cry of humble prayer? 
 
 Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, 
 And hear the last words the believer saith. 
 He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends : 
 There is peace in the eye, w^hich the Spirit sends ; 
 There is peace in his calm, confiding air ; 
 For his thoughts are with God, and his last words, 
 prayer. 
 
 The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! 
 A voice to strengthen, to soothe, to cheer. 
 It commends the spirit to God who gave ; 
 It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave ; 
 It points to the glory where He shall reign. 
 Who whisper'd, '' Thy brother shall rise again." 
 
 u 
 
290 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 The voice of prayer in the wx)rld of bliss ! 
 But gladder, purer, than rose from this. 
 The ransom'd shout to their glorious King, 
 Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing ; 
 But a sinless and joyous song they raise ; 
 And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. 
 
 Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength 
 
 To join that holy band at length. 
 
 To Him, who unceasing love displays, 
 
 Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise ; 
 
 To Him tliy heart and thy hours be given ; 
 
 For a life of prayer is a life of heaven. 
 
 Henry Ware, Jun. 
 
 CCXLYII. 
 
 SUBMISSION. 
 
 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 mark'd my erring track : 
 
 That wheresoever my feet have swervVl, 
 His chastening turn'd me back ; 
 
 I 
 
JOHN GBEENLEAF WHITTIER. 291 
 
 That more and more a providence 
 
 Of love is understood, 
 Making the springs of time and sense 
 
 Sweet with eternal good ; 
 
 That death seems hut a cover'd way 
 
 Which opens into light, 
 Wherein no Winded 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 angels of its strife 
 
 Slow rounding into calm, 
 
 xlnd so the shadows fall apart. 
 
 And so the west winds play ; 
 And all the windows of my heart 
 
 1 open to the day. 
 
 John Greenleaf Whit tier. 
 
292 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 ccxLvni. 
 THE PUEPOSE OF LIFE. 
 
 HAST thou, 'midst life's empty noises, 
 Heard the solemn steps of time, 
 And the low mysterious voices 
 Of another clime ? 
 
 Early hath life's mighty question 
 Thrill'd within thy heart of youth. 
 
 With a deep and strong beseeching, — 
 What, and where, is truth ? 
 
 Not to ease and aimless quiet 
 
 Doth the inward answer tend ; 
 But to works of love and duty. 
 
 As our being's end. 
 
 Ernest toil and strong endeavour 
 
 Of a spirit, which within 
 Wrestles with familiar evil 
 
 And besetting sin ; 
 
 And without, with tireless vigour. 
 Steady heart, and purpose strong, 
 
 In the power of truth assaileth 
 Every form of wrong. 
 
 John Greenleqf Whittier. 
 
 I 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 93 
 
 CCXLIX. 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 SHALL we grow weary in our watch, 
 And murmur at the long delay, 
 Impatient of our Father's time 
 And His appointed way ? 
 
 Alas ! a deeper test of faith 
 
 Than prison-cell or martyr's stake, 
 
 The self-ahasing watchfulness 
 
 Of silent prayer may make ! 
 
 We gird us bravely to rebuke 
 Our erring brother in the wrong ; 
 And in the ear of Pride and Power 
 Our warning voice is strong. 
 
 Easier to smite with Peter's sword 
 Than " watch one hour" in humbling prayer ; 
 Life's "• great things," like the Syrian Lord, 
 Our hearts can do and dare ; 
 
 But, O, we shrink from Jordan's side. 
 From waters which alone can save, 
 And murmur for Abana's banks 
 
 And Pharpar's brighter wave ! 
 
294 LYUA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 O Thou, who in the garden's shade 
 Didst wake Thj weary ones again, 
 Who slumbered at that fearful hour, 
 Forgetful of Thy pain. 
 
 Bend o'er us now, as over them, 
 And set our sleep-bound spirits free, 
 Nor leave us slumbering in the watch 
 Our souls should keep with Thee. 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 
 CCL. 
 A PRESENT SAVIOUR. 
 
 WE may not climb the heavenly steeps 
 To bring the Lord Christ down ; 
 In vain we search the lowest deeps, 
 For Him no depths can diown. 
 
 But warm, sweet, tender, even yet 
 
 A present help is He ; 
 And faith has still its Olivet, 
 
 And love its Galilee. 
 
 The healing of the seamless dress 
 
 Is by our beds of pain ; 
 We touch Him in life's throng and press, 
 
 And we are whole again. 
 
 I 
 
CARLOS WILCOX. 295 
 
 Through Him the first fond prayers are said 
 
 Our lips of childhood frame ; 
 The last low whispers of our dead 
 
 Are burden'd with His name. 
 
 O Lord and Master of us all ! 
 
 Whatever our name or sign, 
 We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call, 
 
 We test our lives by Thine. 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier, 
 
 CCLI. 
 
 CHRISTIAN ACTIVITY. 
 
 WOULD ST thou from sorrow find a sweet relief ? 
 Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold ? 
 Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? 
 Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold ? 
 'Tis when the rose is wrapt in many a fold 
 Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there 
 Its life and beauty ; not when, all unroll'd, 
 Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair 
 Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. 
 
 Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, 
 Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night 
 When death is waiting for thy number'd hours 
 To take their swift and everlasting flight ; 
 Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite, 
 
296 LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 And be thy thoughts to work divine addrest ; 
 Do something — do it soon — with all thy might ; 
 An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, 
 And God Himself, inactive, were no longer blest. 
 
 Some high or humble enterprise of good 
 Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind. 
 Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, 
 And kindle in thy heart a flame refined. 
 Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind 
 To this thy purpose — to begin, pursue. 
 With thoughts all fix'd, and feelings purely kind ; 
 Strength to complete, and with delight review, 
 And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. 
 
 Rouse to some Avork of high and holy love. 
 
 And thou an angel's happiness shalt know, 
 
 Shalt bless the earth, when in the world above. 
 
 The good begun by thee shall onward flow 
 
 In many a branching stream, and wider grow ; 
 
 The seed that in these few and fleeting houi^ 
 
 Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow. 
 
 Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, 
 
 And yield thee fruits divine in Heaven's immortal 
 
 bowers. 
 
 Carlos Wilcoi. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 fHESE hymns were probably written about 1830; as 
 it is well known that the iUustrious author, on his 
 retiring from the Presidency (1829), devoted a por- 
 tion of his time daily to reading the Bible in the 
 original languages, and to versifying the Psalms. 
 
 III. I have not found any two versions of this hymn alike, 
 and have followed mainly that of the Sabbath Hymn Book, 
 and of Rev. Frederick M. Bird's selection. It was translated, 
 about 1849, from Paul Gerhardt (1659), whose German version 
 was founded upon the French of Bernard of Clairvaux, 1153. 
 
 viT. Dr. Bethune's remains were taken to IS^ew York, and 
 buried in Greenwood Cemetery. He had written all the direc- 
 tions for his funeral ; and, among others, that this hymn should 
 be sung, and he even selected the tune that should be used 
 with it. 
 
 VIII. It was the custom of Dr. Bethune to prepare hymns 
 for his Sunday-school children upon their festal days, and this 
 is one of them. 
 
 XIII. This hymn, in manuscript, was found among the author's 
 papers after his death, 
 
 XV. This is said to have been the author's first and favourite 
 hymn, having been written when he was on a voyage to the 
 
298 LYBA SACRA A31ERICANA. 
 
 West Indies, for tlie benefit of his health, in the year 1825; 
 but it was not published till some years after. 
 
 xvri. About the year 1848, the Rev. J. S. Holmes, editor of 
 the Baptist Hymn and Tune Book, applied to Dr. Bethune to 
 write for his collection a hymn upon baptism. He remarked to 
 his nephew. Rev. George Duffield, Jun., who was with him in 
 his study when he sat down to compose it, "I have the vanity 
 to think that I can write a better hymn of that kind than any 
 I have seen in their collections;" and tlie judgment of the 
 Christian public has fully confirmed as true what he had " the 
 vanity to think." 
 
 XIX. This hymn was found in Dr. Bethune' s portfolio after 
 his death, and was evidently written the Saturday before that 
 event, which took place on Sunday, April 27th, 1862. 
 
 XXXVI. This piece was first published in the Independent^ 
 January 18, 1866. I may here add that most of these beauti- 
 ful hymns of Mr. Burleigh's were given to me in manuscript 
 by the author for this work. 
 
 Lxix. Dr. Rogers, in the text of his Lyra Britannicaf credits 
 this hymn to Joseph Cottle, but, in his notes at the end, he 
 makes the proper correction, and assigns it to Mr. Davis. 
 
 Lxxxi. This spirited hymn caught its inspiration from the 
 dying words of that noble young clergyman. Rev. Dudley 
 Atkins Tyng, rector of the Epiphany Church, Philadelphia, 
 who died about 1854. His last words were, *' Tell them to 
 stand up for Jesus : now^ let us sing a hymn." As he had been 
 much persecuted in those pro-slavery days for his persistent 
 course in pleading the cause of the oppressed, it was thought 
 that these words had a peculiar significance in liis mind ; as 
 if he had said, ** Stand up for Jesus in the person of the down- 
 trodden slave '^ {Luke iv. 18). 
 
 Lxxxit. This national hymn was written, I believe, about 
 1844. This is the date given to it by the Rev. Mr. Bird in his 
 collection. 
 
 xci. This first appeared in the Christian Disciple, in 1823. 
 
 xcii. This was first published in 1835. 
 
 I 
 
NOTES. 299 
 
 CXI. Of this hymn Kev. Leonard Bacon, D.D., thus remarks : 
 " It is unsurpassed in the English or any other language. 
 Perhaps it is as near perfection as an uninspired composition 
 can be. The thought, the feeling, the diction, the versification 
 are all exquisite/^ 
 
 cxxxix. In the preface to the edition of 1861, Dr. Lyons 
 says, "The Christian Songs, published in Philadelphia some 
 years ago, are all contained in this volume, together with eight 
 sacred and fifteen other poems not included in the last. West 
 Haverford edition, 1860. 
 
 cxLii. — cxLiii. These two hymns were given to me in manu- 
 script by Mr. Mackellar for this collection. 
 
 cxLViir. Of this beautiful piece a member of the English 
 Parliament thus wrote to an American friend — after saying of 
 General Morris that "his many songs and ballads are house- 
 hold words in every home in England ^^ — "But what, after all, 
 are all the throat-warblings in the world to one such heart- 
 song as M^ Mothers Bible ? It possesses the true test of 
 genius, touching with sympathy the human heart equally in 
 the palace and the cottage." See my Compendium of American 
 Literature, p. 505. 
 
 CL. This most beautiful hymn, which has been so much 
 altered and abridged in all our hymn-books, is here printed as 
 the author gave it to me in his own hand. It first appeared in 
 t\\Q Episcopal Recorder, Philadelphia, June 3rd, 1826, when the 
 Rev. George T. Bedell was the editor. 
 
 CLi. This hymn has been printed in many of our books 
 without the first stanza; hence it may be often found by the 
 line, O cease my wandering soul. Perhaps, when singing it, 
 the first stanza might be omitted; but it should always be 
 printed, as it is the very subject on whicli the other stanzas 
 are founded. 
 
 CLix. This hymn originally begun with "Happy, Saviour," 
 and is thus printed in some collections. JS'ot only with the 
 consent, but the approbation of the author, I have transposed 
 the words. I may add that most of these hymns Dr. Nevin 
 gave me in manuscript for this collection. 
 
300 LYBA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 CLxvii. This was translated from Eobert II. of France. 
 
 CLxxi. In connection with this hymn — the first, I believe, the 
 author wrote (about 1831) — I have heard the following anec- 
 dote from two or three sources, so that I presume it is sub- 
 stantially correct. An editor of a religious periodical, acci- 
 dentally meeting with young Mr. Palmer, asked him if he 
 could not give him a piece of poetry for his forthcoming 
 number. Mr. Palmer replied that he had in his pocket the 
 manuscript of a hymn which he had just written, and which he 
 might have if he wished. The editor took it, and, after care- 
 fully reading it, said, '' ^fr. Palmer, this hymn will hand your 
 name down to all coming time." The judgment of the Christian 
 Church, wherever the English language is spoken, has confirmed 
 this prediction. 
 
 CLxxiii. This first appeared in the Congregationalist, Boston, 
 September 7th, 1867. 
 
 CLxxxiii. Although these lines are not exactly in keeping 
 with the general contents of this selection, I give them a place 
 in it because they are so eminently characteristic of my noble 
 friend the author, who preached and laboured so long and so 
 unremittingly against intemperance and slavery. Against tlie 
 former, at the greatest personal sacrifice; for a majority of the 
 trustees of his church being interested in the liquor trafiic, 
 either as distillers or wholesale dealers, his salary was withheld 
 from him for niany years, and he had to support himself and 
 family by lecturing and writing. But he would not relinquish 
 his pulpit, ana determined that that pulpit should be free^ 
 uttering this noble sentiment — ** If I must be either a pulpit 
 slave or a plantation slave, — send me to the plantation.'^ At 
 length the Supreme Court of Massachusetts awarded to him 
 all his salary for so many years unpaid, together with the 
 interest that had accrued thereon. 
 
 CLxxxvT. This was written for the opening of the Inde- 
 pendent Congregational Church, Barton Square, Salem, Massa- 
 chusetts, December 17th, 1824. 
 
 CLxxxviii. I may here state that this little piece of such 
 finished beauty was dictated by the author, to whom it was my 
 
NOTES. 301 
 
 privilege to minister during a long illness, as lie sat up in his 
 bed but two days before bis death. 
 
 CLXXXix. This hymn was written in 1837, and first published 
 in the Boston Observer, 1838. 
 
 ccviii. I often used to wonder how so good a man could 
 write, and how so many other good people could sing, the 
 second line of this now noble national lyric ; tor it was written 
 at a time (about 1840) when we as a nation were not only 
 by our practice giving the lie to our professed principles, by 
 holding millions of our fellow-men in the vilest slavery, but 
 when no citizen of a so-called free state, of known anti-slavery 
 sentiments, could travel in most of the slave states without 
 danger of the grossest personal violence, and often of his life. 
 But God be praised that all that is now changed ; that this 
 good author was then permitted to write for times better than 
 he then knew; and that now we can all sing this national 
 hymn rejoicing in its beauty because of its truth. 
 
 ccxLVii. These are the last seven stanzas of the piece en- 
 titled "My Psalm." 
 
 CCL. This hymn first appeared in the Boston Congrega- 
 tionalist, August 16th, 1867. 
 
 CCLI. These are four stanzas out of seven of a piece entitled 
 ** Doing Good true Happiness." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 DAMS, John Quixcy, born in Braintree, Massa- 
 chusetts, 1767 : graduated at Harvard University, 
 1787: from 1794 to 1801 minister to the jS^ether- 
 lands, to England, and Prussia: in 1806 Professor 
 of Rhetoric in Harvard University: in 1809 minister to 
 Russia : in 1813 at the head of five commissioners to negotiate 
 peace with Great Britain : in 1817 Secretary of State under 
 President Munroe : from 1824 to 1829 President of the 
 United States: in 1831 he was elected a representative to 
 Congress. In this sphere of public duty he achieved the 
 proudest triumphs of his life as the undaunted champion of 
 the right of petition. For years and years, aided chiefly by 
 that earlier and still bolder friend of the slave, Hon. Joshua 
 R. Giddings of Ohio, he withstood the combined assaults of 
 the slaveholders and their northern allies. At length their 
 labours were crowned with success, and petitions for the abo- 
 lition of slavery were received, read, and referred to a committee. 
 On the 21st of Feb. 1848, this pure and noble patriot, when at 
 his post in the House of Representatives, and while rising to 
 address the Speaker, was struck with paralysis. He lingered 
 till the evening of the next day, when he expired. Read a 
 Memoir of his Life, by Hon. Josiah Quincy. A sketch of his 
 life and public services, somewhat extended, will be found in 
 my Compendium of American Literature. 
 
 ALEXANDER, Rev. James Waddell, D.D., eldest son 
 of Dr. Archibald Alexander, born in 1804 ; was successively 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 303 
 
 Professor of Biblical Literature in Princeton Theological 
 Seminary; Pastor of a Presbyterian church, Charlottesville, 
 Virginia ; and of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian church, New 
 York. He died in 1854. His chief works are, Gift to the 
 Afflicted; The American Mechanic and Workingman^s 
 Companion ; Thoughts on Family Worship, &c. After his 
 death, Kev. Dr. Hall, of Trenton, published his Letters in two 
 large octavos, which had a very small circulation. Had he 
 made a selection from these letters, connected by a running 
 commentary upon the author's life, and published it in a small 
 duodecimo, it would have, doubtless, been richly prized, and 
 had a large sale. I hope that this will yet be done. 
 
 BACON, Eev. Leonard, D.D., born in Detroit, Michigan, 
 in 1802, graduated at New Haven, 1820, studied theology at 
 Andover, and in 1825 was ordained Pastor over the "Centre 
 Church," congregational, in New Haven. At this important 
 and influential post he remained forty-one years, when, 1866, 
 he was elected to one of the theological chairs in the Divinity 
 School of New Haven. From 1822 to the present day he has 
 been a constant contributor to the best religious periodicals, 
 chiefly the Christian Spectator and The New Englander. It 
 is to be hoped that many of these essays will be selected and re- 
 printed in volumes, as a monument of his ability and learning. 
 In my Compendium of American Liter atureytiW be found some 
 choice extracts from his prose writings. 
 
 BETHUNE, Eev. George Washington, D.D., LL.D., 
 
 was born in New York, 1805; graduated at Dickinson College, 
 Carlisle, 1822; and studied theology at Princeton. In 1827 
 he was settled over the Reformed Dutch Church, Rhinebeck, 
 New York; in 1830 removed to Utica; and in 1834 was called 
 to the Reformed Dutch Church in Crown Street, Philadelphia. 
 In 1837 a new church edifice was built for him at the corner 
 of 10th and Filbert Streets in that city, where he remained 
 twelve years. In 1850 he was called to the Reformed Dutch 
 Church, Brooklyn Heights, New York. In 1861, his health 
 having become mucli impaired, he went with his wife to Italy, 
 making his abode chiefly at Florence. He had been warned 
 by his physicians against preaching; but when invited by tlie 
 
304 LYRA SACRA A3IERICANA. 
 
 Rev. Mr. M*Dougal of that city to preach for him on the 
 morning of the 27th of April, 1862, he felt that he could not 
 refuse, and it is said that he preached with more even than his 
 wonted power and unction. But the effort and excitement 
 were too much for him; for soon after reaching his lodgings 
 he was seized with a rushing of blood to the brain, and breathed 
 his last on the evening of that day. ** God took him, as he 
 wished,'^ writes his devoted wife, ** from His courts on earth 
 to His courts in heaven ." 
 
 From his fine scholarship, his power as a writer and orator, 
 and his commanding presence, Dr. Bethune received numerous 
 calls to high posts of honour and trust; such as the Chancellor- 
 ship of the New York University, the Provostship of the 
 University of Pennsylvania, &c., which he uniformly declined ; 
 preferring, as he said, to remain the simple pastor of a 
 Christian church. His chief publications are. The Fruits of 
 the Spirit, a volume of essays, 1839; a volume of Sermons, 
 1847; Lays of Faith and Hope, 1848; The British Female 
 Poets, with biographical and critical notices, 1848. Since his 
 death have appeared his Lectures on the Heidelberg Catechis7n, 
 2 vols. ; and Life and Letters, by A. R. Van Xest, D.D., 
 1 vol. "A compact and well written record," says the 
 Boston Congregationalist, *^ of a great and good man." For 
 some eloquent extracts from his prose writings, see my Co7n- 
 pendium of American Literature. 
 
 BROWN, Phcebe Hinsdale, was born at Canaan, New 
 York, in 1783 ; was married to Mr. Timothy H. Brown, of 
 whom she had one son and three daughters, and died October 
 10th, 1861, at Henry, Illinois, in the house of her daughter, 
 Mrs. Elijah Smith. A son is a missionary at Japan, under tlie 
 auspices of the American Board. 
 
 BRYAXT, William Ccllex, was born at Cummington, 
 ^Massachusetts, in 1794 ; entered Williams College, and was ad- 
 mitted to tlie bar in 1815. In 1817 one of his most celebrated 
 poems, Thanatopsis, was published in the North American 
 Review, which gave him, at once, a high stand as a poet. In 
 1821 appeared his longest poem. The Ages, In 1825 he 
 removed to New York, and the next year became the editor of 
 
 I 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, 305 
 
 the Evening Post, with which he has ever since heen connected, 
 and which has exerted a great and good influence upon the 
 politics of our country ; conducted, as it has always been, 
 not only with signal ability, but with great courtesy and a 
 high-toned morality. He has travelled through Europe several 
 times, and in 1850 gave the results in Letters of a Traveller, 
 His Poems, which have been published in numerous editions, 
 give him a place among the very first poets of our country. 
 
 BUELEIGH, WiLLiA]\i Henry, was born in Woodstock, Con- 
 necticut, in 1812. In his seventeenth year he was apprenticed 
 to the printing business, and, after attaining his majority, his 
 time was divided between the duties of editor and public lec- 
 turer. A volume of his poems appeared in Philadelphia in 
 1840. For the past few years he has had a post in the Custom 
 House, iN'ew York. He owes it to himself to collect his nume- 
 rous beautiful sacred pieces scattered in our various journals, 
 and publish them in a volume. 
 
 CARY, Alice and Phcebe. 
 
 Alice Cary was born in Hamilton county, Ohio, in 1820, her 
 ancestors having emigrated there from Connecticut, after the 
 war of the Revolution. In 1850 she left her western home 
 with her sister Phoebe (who is five years younger) for the city 
 of New York, where the first volume of their joint poems was 
 issued. In 1851 Alice published her first series of her Clover- 
 nook Papers, which gave her at once a position as a prose 
 writer. In 1852 appeared her Hagar, a Story of To-day, In 
 1854 Phoebe published a volume of her collected poems, en- 
 titled Poems and Parodies, Lately (1866) a very elegant 
 volume of Alice's poems have been published by Hurd and 
 Houghton, of New York, and by Sampson Low, Son and 
 Marston, London. 
 
 CLARKE, Rev, James Freeman, bom in Hanover, New Hamp- 
 shire, 1810, graduated at Harvard College, in 1829, and at the 
 Cambridge Divinity School in 1833. He was settled in Louisville, 
 Kentucky, from 1833 to 1840, and in Boston, as pastor of the 
 Church of the Disciples from 1840 to the present time. In 1848 
 he published Life and Military Service of General William Hull, 
 triumphantly vindicating the character of that brave general 
 
 X 
 
3o6 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 from the aspersions that had been cast upon it. In 1851 
 appeared Eleven Weeks in Europe; in 1852, Chnstian Doctrine 
 of Forgiveness ; in 1856, Service Book and Hymn Book for the 
 Church of the Disciples; and in 1856, Christian Doctrine of 
 Prayer, In faith Mr, Clarke belongs to the evangelical party 
 of the Unitarian denomination ; and, to his great praise be it 
 said, he was an early and constant outspoken friend of the 
 slave. 
 
 CLIXCH, Joseph H. Of this author I can get no account, 
 though I have written to a number of persons in my country, 
 who, as I thought, would be most likely to know something of 
 him. The hymns here given I have taken from different 
 collections. 
 
 COXE, Eight Rev. Arthur Cleveland, eldest son of Eev. 
 Samuel H. Cox, D.D., and Abiah Hyde Cleveland, was born 
 in Mendham, New Jersey (where his father was first settled as 
 pastor of the Presbyterian church). May 10, 1818, and gra- 
 duated at the JN'ew York University in 1838 with honourable 
 distinction. In 1842 he was called to the rectorship ot" St. John's 
 Church, Hartford, Connecticut. In 1851 he went to England, 
 and was received with marked attention, the fame of his 
 Christian Ballads having preceded him. Soon after his return, 
 in 1854, he was elected rector of Grace Church, Baltimore, 
 where he continued till near the close of the slaveholders' re- 
 bellion, nobly, and against great and bitter opposition, main- 
 taining the cause of his country, " Union and Liberty." In 
 1864 he was elected Bishop of the Western Diocese of New 
 York, fixing his residence at Buffalo. His principal publica- 
 tions are, Athanasion and Miscellaneous Poeins, 1840 ; Chris- 
 tian Ballads, 1841 ; Hallowe^ en and other Poems, 1844; Saul, 
 a Mystery, 1845; and Impressions of England, 1855. 
 
 CEOSWELL, Eev. Willla^m, D.D., was born at Hudson, 
 New York, in 1804. In 1818 he entered Yale College, took 
 his bachelor's degree in 1822, and in 1825 entered the seminary 
 of the Episcopal Church in New York ; but his health becoming 
 somewhat impaired, he removed to Hartford, and continued his 
 theological studies in the college there. In 1829 he was or- 
 dained, and entered on the rectorship of Christ Church, in 
 Boston. In this office he continued till 1844, when he under- 
 
 I 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 307 
 
 took the founding of the Church of the Advent in that city, in 
 the service of which he ministered till his death, 1851. 
 
 *^ As a pastor, few have been more exemplary and devoted 
 than Dr. Croswell. He delighted to find out Christ in his poor; 
 and yet he was always beloved and admired by many among 
 the most refined and affluent. As a preacher, he was chaste 
 and fervent in his style, felicitous in his illustrations and expo- 
 sitions of Holy Scripture, and clear and evangelical in his 
 statements of doctrine." ^ 
 
 DAVIS, Rev. Eliel, was a young clergyman of Massachu- 
 setts, and born about 1800. Where he was settled I have not 
 been able to ascertain ; but he died quite young, before he had 
 reached his thirtieth year, I believe. I have not been able to 
 find any more of his hymns, which is to be regretted, as the 
 one here given is so beautiful and so finished. 
 
 DOANE, Rt. Eev. George Washington, D.D., was born in 
 Trenton, New Jersey, in 1799, and graduated at Union College, 
 New York. For four years he was assistant minister in Trinity 
 Church, New York, and in 1824 was appointed Professor of 
 Belles- Lettres in Washington College, Hartford, Connecticut. 
 In 1828 he accepted an invitation from Trinity Church, Boston, 
 and in 1832 was consecrated Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal 
 Church of New Jersey. He died April 26, 1859. 
 
 Besides attending assiduously to the duties of his official 
 position. Bishop Doane took a deep interest in the cause of 
 education. In 1837 he founded St. Mary's Hall, Burlington, 
 New Jersey, a school for young ladies; and, in 1846, Burling- 
 ton College, for young men. Since his death his works, con- 
 sisting of sermons, orations, charges, poetry, &c., have been 
 published in four volumes, octavo. Throughout all his writings, 
 both prose and poetry, there is seen a refined taste and a 
 classic finish that give him a place among our purest writers. 
 
 DUFFIELD, Rev. George, was born in Carlisle, Pennsyl- 
 vania, in 1818, when his father, recently pastor of the first Pres- 
 byterian church in Detroit, Michigan, was settled over the first 
 Presbyterian church in that town. He graduated at Yale College 
 in 1837, was ordained to the ministry in 1840, and soon settled 
 
 ^ Memoir, by Rt. Rev. A. Cleveland Coxe, D.D. 
 
3o8 LIMA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 in Bloomfield, New Jersey. Thence he was called to Brooklyn, 
 New York, and thence, in 1852, to Philadelphia, to the church 
 in Button wood Street. In 1860 he was called to the Preshy- 
 terian church in Ann Arbour, Michigan. Mr. Duffield has 
 written many hymns, but will be chiefly remembered for the 
 one, ** Stand up for Jesus. '^ 
 
 D WIGHT, John S., is the son of the Eev. Timothy Dwight, 
 D.D., for many years president of Yale College. Though he 
 has written a number of hymns, and has contributed to our 
 literature some fine prose translations from Goethe and Schiller, 
 he will be most known as the writer of one of our noble national 
 anthems, " God save the State." 
 
 DWIGHT, Eev. Timothy, D.D., was born in Northampton, 
 Massachusetts, in 1752. After graduating at Yale College, he 
 was chosen tutor, which office he held for six years. In 1783 
 he was ordained over the Congregational church in Greenfield, 
 Connecticut, and in 1795 was chosen president of Yale College, 
 Avhich post he held until his death, which occurred January 11, 
 1817. 
 
 Dr. Dwight's published works are, The Conquest of Canaan^ 
 a poem ; Greenfield Hill, a poem ; Travels in Neiv England, 
 four volumes ; Theology Explained and Defended, five volumes ; 
 and some versions of the Psalms. His Theology has passed 
 through numerous editions in England as well as in our own 
 country, and is very highly esteemed. But his noblest life- 
 work was, perhaps, his presidency of Yale College; for the 
 happy influence he exerted for twenty-two years in training 
 the minds and moulding the characters of so many hundreds of 
 young men, can never die. 
 
 EASTBURN, Rev. James Wallace, was born in New York 
 in 1797, and was graduated at Columbia College. He entered 
 the ministry of the Episcopal Church, and was settled over a 
 small parish on the eastern shore of Virginia. He died in his 
 twenty-second year (December 2, 1819), when on a voyage to 
 Santa Cruz for the benefit of his health. 
 
 Mr. Eastburn was a young man of uncommon promise. In 
 conjunction with his intimate friend, Robert C. Sands, he wrote 
 tlie poem on the history of Philip, the Indian chief, called 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 309 
 
 Yamoyden — a remarkable production for authors so young ; for 
 Sands was two years his junior. He left behind numerous 
 productions in prose and verse, which have never been pub- 
 lished. 
 
 EASTBURN, Joseph (1748-1828), was a celebrated preacher 
 to seamen in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, for nearly half a cen- 
 tury. In October, 1819, he founded there the Mariners* Church, 
 which has been productive of great good. An interesting me- 
 moir of him was written by the Rev. Ashbel Green, D.D. 
 
 FURNESS, Rev William Henry, D.D., is a native of 
 Massachusetts. He was graduated at Harvard University in 
 1820, and in 1823 was settled over the Unitarian church, Phi- 
 ladelphia, where he continues to this day — 1868. To his last- 
 ing honour be it said, he was, from the beginning of his 
 preaching, an earnest advocate for the abolition of slavery, and 
 this, too, in the face of constant opposition. His published 
 works are, Jesus and His BiographerSy A Life of Christ, and 
 a Manual of Domestic Worship. He has given, also, a fine 
 translation of Schiller's Song of the Bell. 
 
 HASTINGS, Thomas, Mus. Doc, was born in Washington, 
 Connecticut, in 1784, and at twelve years of age removed with 
 his father to Clinton, JSTew York. Of decided musical talent, 
 he early gave a great deal of attention to church psalmody, and 
 to this department of music he devoted the chief years of his life. 
 From 1824 to 1832 he conducted a religious journal in Utica, 
 in the columns of which he often presented his views of church 
 music. In 1832, having removed to the city of New York, he 
 published his Spiritual Songs; in 1836 his Christian Psalmist : 
 in 1849 The Mother s Hymn Book; in 1850, Devotional Hymns 
 and Religious Poems. The whole number of his publications 
 of poetry and music is about twenty, most of which have had a 
 very wide circulation. Though his hymns are not of the highest 
 order of sacred poetry, they are very pleasing and tasteful, and 
 some of them have long been favourites in the Christian 
 Church. He is still (1867) living in a green old age in New 
 York, where he has resided since 1832, when he was invited there 
 by a large number of churches to improve their psalmody. 
 
 HEDGE, Rev. Frederick Henry, D.D., is the son of the 
 
3IO LYEA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 late Professor Hedge, of Harvard University, and was born in 
 Cambridge, Massaclmsetts, in 1805, He graduated there in 
 1825, and prepared himself for the ministry. For fifteen years 
 he was pastor of the Unitarian church in Bangor, Maine, and 
 is now settled in Brooklyn, Massachusetts. He is Professor of 
 Ecclesiastical History in the Theological School at Cambridge, 
 and one of the editors of the Christian Examiner, His chief 
 work is The Prose Writers of Germany, an excellent introduc- 
 tion to the knowledge of German literature. 
 
 HIGGINSON, Thomas Wentworth, was born in Cambridge, 
 Massachusetts, December 22, 1823, and is descended, on the 
 side of his father (Stephen H.), from Francis Higginson, one 
 of the leading founders of the Massachusetts colony. He gra- 
 duated at Harvard University, 1841, at the Theological School 
 1847, and was ordained over the first Congregational church at 
 Xewburyport, 1847. In 1858 he retired from the ministry, 
 and devoted himself to literary pursuits, becoming a leading 
 contributor to the Atlantic Monthly, At the breaking out of 
 the slaveholders' rebellion he nobly devoted himself to the ser- 
 vice of his country, and was soon promoted to be colonel of the 
 First South Carolina Volunteers — the first regiment of slaves 
 enlisted in the United States service. Among other achieve- 
 ments, he took and held the town of Jacksonville, Florida. 
 Subsequently he was wounded in an engagement, and com- 
 pelled to resign from disability. He has since resided in JSTew- 
 port, Rhode Island, engaged in literary pursuits. Besides other 
 works, he published, in 1866, Harvard Memorial Biographies, 
 two volumes — a collection of memoirs of those graduates who 
 fell in their country's service. 
 
 HILLHOUSE, Abraham Lucas, was the younger brother of 
 James A. Hillhouse, the author of Hadad, The Judgment, &c. 
 He was born in 1792, and died near Paris, March 14, 1859. 
 He laboured many years in Paris to form an evangelical school 
 there for English and American residents and travellers. 
 
 HOFFMAN, Charles Fenno, son of the late Judge Hoff- 
 man of New York, was born in that city in 1806, graduated 
 at Columbia College, and admitted to the bar at the age of 
 twenty-one. But literature had more charms for him than 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 311 
 
 the law, and he hecame co-editor, with Mr. Charles King, of 
 the New York American. In 1833 the Knickerbocker 
 Magazine appeared under liis editorship, a magazine which 
 lias ever maintained a high literary character. In 1846 and 
 1847 he edited the Literary World. His publications have 
 been: — Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie; the romance 
 of the Greyslaer ; The Vigil of Faith and other Poems ; and 
 another volume of poems entitled, Borroived Notes for Home 
 Circulation, A collection of his lyrical compositions has been 
 published, entitled Love's Calendar. 
 
 HOLMES, Oliver Wendell, M.D., son of Rev. Abiel 
 Holmes, D.D. of Cambridge, Massachusetts, was born in 1809, 
 and graduated at Harvard University in 1829. He studied 
 medicine and commenced the practice in Boston. In 1847 he 
 was elected to the chair of Anatomy in Harvard University, 
 w^hich he still holds. 
 
 Accomplished as he is in his profession, and able as have 
 been his contributions to medical journals, he is and ever will 
 be chiefly known by his poems and prose writings : the former 
 unrivalled in our literature for their genuine, easy, and un- 
 affected wdt; the latter for uniting high polish of style to 
 captivating grace of narration and profound thought. His 
 Professor at the Breakfast Table, his Autocrat at the Breakfast 
 Table, and his Elsie Venner, are works which, for wit, pathos, 
 profound philosopliical speculation, nice descriptive powers, 
 keen insight of human nature, and aptness and force of illus- 
 tration, give him a very high rank in American Literature. Of 
 his last work the " London Illustrated News " writes, *' Let all 
 novels be laid aside until The Guardian Angel be read : it is 
 full of wit and wisdom and interest." 
 
 JOHNSON, Rev. Samuel, was born in Salem, Massa- 
 chusetts, October 10, 1822; graduated at Harvard University, 
 1842, and at the Divinity School in 1843. In 1853 he formed 
 a "Free Church" in Lynn, Massachusetts, of which he is still 
 the pastor. He has never connected himself with any religious 
 denomination, but is doubtless nearer the Unitarian than any 
 other. About 1846, in conjunction with Rev. S. Longfellow, 
 )>e published a volume of sacred poetry, called Hymns of the 
 Spirit. 
 
312 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 KEY, Francis Scott, was born in Maryland in 1779, 
 studied law, and in 1801 established himself at Fredericktown. 
 In a few years after he removed to Washington, District of 
 Columbia, and was the United States District Attorney there 
 till his death, 1843. 
 
 Mr. Key is best known as the author of our celebrated 
 national song, *<The Star-Spangled Banner." In 1857 a 
 small volume of his poems was published, which contains the 
 beautiful pieces here introduced. 
 
 LAWRENCE, Jonathan, was born in JSTew York in 1807, 
 and graduated at Columbia College in 1823. After the usual 
 preparatory studies he entered upon the practice of the law, 
 and the highest expectations were justly formed of his future 
 eminence, when he was suddenly removed by death, April 26, 
 1838. After his death his brother liad printed for private 
 circulation a small volume of his writings in prose and verse, 
 among which is the very beautiful piece, here introduced, giving 
 the one direction for all the trials of life. 
 
 LONGFELLOW, Professor Henry Wadsworth, was born 
 in Portland, Maine, 1807 ; graduated at Bowdoin Colleofe in 
 1825; travelled in Europe four years to qualify himself for the 
 chair of Modern Languages in his own college, which he 
 assumed on his return in 1829. In 1835 he was elected 
 Professor of Modern Languages and Belles- Lettres in Harvard 
 University, which post he still fills. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to enumerate his several works, chiefly 
 poetry, for it is an undoubted fact that no poet in England 
 and America has so wide a reputation and is so universally 
 popular. To his lasting credit be it said that he early wrote 
 a number of poems against our great national sin, Slavery, 
 now happily no more. 
 
 LONGFELLOW, Rev. SaiMuel, is a Clergyman of Massa- 
 chusetts, a graduate of Harvard University, and a brother of 
 the celebrated poet. In conjunction with the Rev. Samuel 
 Johnson he published in 1846 a beautiful volume of sacred 
 poetry entitled Hymns of the Spirit. 
 
 LYONS, Rev. James Gilborne, LL.D., is the author of 
 Christian Songs, Translations, and other Poems : Philadelphia, 
 
 I 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, 313 
 
 Smith and English, 1861, 12mo. pp. 157. Some of these had 
 heen published before. Dr. Lyons had, for many years, a 
 select boys' school of a high character, at Haverford Pennsyl- 
 vania, about ten miles West from Philadelphia. He was a very 
 accomplished scholar, and died deeply and widely lamented on 
 the 2nd of January, 1868. 
 
 MACKELLAR, Thomas, was born in N^ew York in 1812, 
 and at the age of sixteen entered the printing establishment of 
 the Harpers, and made himself thoroughly acquainted with 
 the business. In 1833 he removed to Philadelphia, and 
 became foreman of the great type foundry of Lawrence, 
 Johnson and Co., of which successful and wealthy firm he is 
 now senior partner, Mr. Johnson having died a few y^ars ago. 
 
 Mr. Mackellar early wrote for the *' Journal" of the Sunday 
 School Union. His first volume of verses, Droppings from the 
 Heart, was published in 1844: his second Tarns Fortnights 
 Rambles, in 1847, and his last. Lines for the Gentle and 
 Loving, in 1853. 
 
 MILES, Mrs. Sarah Appleton, is the widow of the late 
 accomplished scholar, Solomon Miles, head-master of the 
 Boston High School, and afterwards Principal of a Young 
 Ladies' private school in the same city. He died of consump- 
 tion a few years ago ; and Mrs. Miles now resides with her son 
 in Brattelboro, Vermont. 
 
 MOERIS, George P., distinguished as one of our best 
 song-writers, was born in Philadelphia in 1802. In 1822 he 
 began his literary career as editor of The New York Mirror, 
 which he conducted for twenty years. In 1846, in conjunction 
 with his friend N. P. Willis, he started a weekly family paper 
 called The Home Journal, which under their joint editorship 
 had a very wide and deserved popularity, for twenty years, for 
 the taste and ability displayed in its columns. Mr. Morris 
 died in the early part of 1866. His works are. The Deserted 
 Bride and other Poems, 1843; The Whip-poor-will, a Poem, 
 1846 ; and American Melodies. He is the author of the cele- 
 brated song, " Woodman ! spare that tree ! '^ and also of the 
 humorous version of our national song " Yankee Doodle." 
 
314 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 MUHLEIS'BUEG, Eev. William Augustus, D.D., is now 
 and has been for about twenty years, the Kector of St. Luke's 
 Hospital Church in the city of 'New York. He has published 
 1st, Church Poetry : being portions of the Psalms in verse, and 
 Hymns suited to the Festivals and Fasts and various Occasions 
 of the Church, selected and arranged from various Authors : 
 Isew York, 1823. 2nd, in conjunction witli the Eev. J. M. 
 Wainwright, D.D., Music of the Church, 3rd, The People^ s 
 Psalter, new edition revised and enlarged, 1858. He lias 
 written only a few hymns, but these are of the very highest 
 order. 
 
 XEYI!N", Eev, Edwix H., was born in Shippensburg, 
 Pennsylvania, in 1814 ; graduated at Jefferson College, Penn- 
 sylvania; studied theology at Princeton, New Jersey, ard was 
 licensed by the first Presbytery of Philadelphia in 1836. He 
 was first settled in Portsmouth, Ohio, and afterwards was 
 called to two or three other places. His last settlement was 
 in Massachusetts, where he remained eight years. He is now 
 living in Philadelphia, without any charge, his health not 
 allowing him to undertake pastoral duty. 
 
 NOETO^N", Eev. Andrews, D H., was born in Hingham, 
 Massachusetts, in 1786, and graduated at Harvard in 1804. 
 Though he studied theology he was never settled as a pastor. 
 In 1811 he was appointed tutor and librarian in Harvard, and 
 in 1813 succeeded Eev. Dr. Channing as Biblical lecturer. lu 
 1819 he was appointed " Dexter Professor of Sacred Lite- 
 rature,^' and fulfilled the duties of the chair till 1830, when he 
 was compelled by ill health to resign it. He continued to 
 reside in Cambridge till his death, 1853. Dr. Norton was a 
 profound and accurate scholar, and an eminent theologian. 
 He contributed a great number of articles to the North 
 American Review, Christian Examiner, &c. The work by 
 which he will be most known is entitled Evidences of the 
 Genuineness of the Gospels, 2 vols. Svo. 
 
 ONDEEDONK, Eev. Henry Ustick, D.D., was for about 
 twenty-five years Bishop of the Episcopal Church of the diocese 
 of Pennsylvania, having been consecrated in 1827. Besides 
 numerous sermons, and a few hymns, he wrote Episcopacy 
 
BIOGBAPHICAL SKETCHES. 315 
 
 Re-examined^ being a reply to Episcopacy Examined, by Rev. 
 Albert Barnes. 
 
 PALMER, Rev. Ray, D.D., was born in Rhode Island in 
 1808, and graduated at Yale College in 1830. He pursued his 
 theological studies partly in Xew Haven and partly in New 
 York, and in 1835 was settled as pastor of the Central Congre- 
 gational Church in Bath, Maine. In 1847, his health becoming 
 impaired, he made the tour of Europe, and on his retuin was 
 called to the first Congregational church in Albany, where he 
 laboured with great usefulness till 1865, when, at the urgent 
 request of a large number of his ministerial brethren, he was 
 induced to remove to New York to become secretary of the 
 "Congregational Union." 
 
 Dr. Palmer began to write hymns and sacred poetry while 
 he was studying for the ministry, his pieces being first printed 
 in periodicals and in hymn-books, to which he specially con- 
 tributed, such as the Parish Psalmody, The Sabbath Hymn 
 Book, &c. In 1865 his various poems were collected and pub- 
 lished in a very beautiful volume, by A. D. P. Randolph, JS'ew 
 York, under the title of Hymns and Sacred Pieces, with Mis- 
 cellaneous Poems. From this chosen volume he has kindly 
 given me permission to take wliat I might wish ; and sure I 
 am that they who may see these few gems will desire to possess 
 themselves of the rich mine from which they are selected. 
 
 PEABODY, Rev. William Bourxe Oliver, was born in 
 Exeter, New Hampshire, in 1799. In 1820 he was ordained 
 pastorof a Unitarian church at Springfield, Massachusetts, where 
 he resided till his death, May 28, 1847. He was a frequent 
 contributor to the North American Review and the Christian 
 Examiner, and is the author of some beautiful sacred poetry. 
 
 PIERPONT, Rev. John, was born in Litchfield, Connecti- 
 cut, in 1785. After graduating at Yale College in 1804, he 
 entered upon the study of law, and began to practise in Newbury- 
 port, Massachusetts. But literary pursuits had greater charms 
 for him, and in 1818 appeared his Airs of Palestine, which was 
 received with great favour, and deservedly takes rank among 
 the best of American poems. Soon after the publication of this 
 poem he entered the Theological School in Harvard University, 
 
3i6 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 and in 1819 was ordained as pastor of the Unitarian church in 
 Hollis Street, Boston, and for a long series of years was no less 
 earnest as a reformer in the cause of temperance and freedom 
 than he was eloquent as a preacher. In 1840 he published 
 all his poems in one volume, including his anti-slavery and 
 temperance poems and songs. He also prepared a number of 
 valuable school books, of which the National Reader and the 
 American First Class Book have had a very wide circulation. 
 In the latter part of his life, having from impaired health given 
 up preaching, he was called to a position in the Treasury De- 
 partment, Washington. He died in the latter part of 1866, 
 while on a visit to his old home, Medford, Massachusetts. 
 
 REES, Louis S. D., though born in England, lived a great 
 part of his life in our country, chiefly in Philadelphia, and was 
 a highly accomplished scholar, musician, and poet. He gave 
 lessons in the classics, mathematics, and general literature in 
 some of our best schools ; was organist in two or three Episcopal 
 churches, and at his death left a poem, in quite an unfinished 
 state, which, had he lived to complete it, would have given him 
 a high rank as a poet and scholar. He died, February, 1859, 
 aged about forty. 
 
 SEARS, Rev. Edmund Hamilton, was born in Berkshire 
 county, Massachusetts, in 1810 ; graduated at Union College, 
 Schenectady, in 1834, and at the Theological School of Harvard 
 University in 1837. In 1838 he was ordained over the first 
 Congregational church in Wayland, Massachusetts, and in 1840 
 was called to Lancaster, in the same state. On account of 
 impaired health he resigned his charge in 1847, and returned 
 to VFayland, where he now resides, and is, in conjunction with 
 Rev. R. Ellis, editor of the Monthly Religious Magazine , Bos- 
 ton. He has published Regeneration, 1 vol. 8vo., which has 
 passed through six editions; Pictures of the Olden Time, two 
 editions; Athanasia, or Foregleams of Immortality , five editions. 
 He has never made a collection of his hymns. He writes to 
 me, " Though I was educated in the Unita,rian denomination, 
 I believe and preach the Divinity of Christ.^' 
 
 SIGOURNEY, Lydia Huntley, was born in Norwich, Con- 
 necticut, in 1791. She very early shoAved a talent for poetry, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 317 
 
 and in 1815 appeared her first volume, Moral Pieces in Prose 
 and Verse, which was well received. In 1819 she was married 
 to Charles Sigourney, Esq., a leading merchant of Hartford. 
 Henceforth her career was to be that of an author. Letters to 
 Pupils, Letters to Young Ladies, Whisper to a Bride, and 
 Letters to Mothers, successively appeared. On her return from 
 Europe, she published Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands. 
 One of her latest publications is Past Meridian, giving an 
 account of the happy old age of a large number of people she 
 had known. Her published works in prose and verse amount 
 to nearly forty volumes. She died at Hartford in the summer 
 of 1865." 
 
 SMITH, Rev. Samuel F., D.D., was born about the year 
 1805. He is an eminent Baptist minister, and resides now at 
 IN'ewton, Massachusetts. He was the principal editor of the 
 Psalmist, a collection of hymns for the use of the Baptist 
 churches, and in it most, if not all, of his hymns are to be found. 
 From 1843 to 1849 he was the editor of the Christian Review, 
 published at Boston. 
 
 SMITH, Samuel J., was born in Burlington, New Jersey, in 
 the latter part of the last century. With large inherited wealth, 
 and with fine literary tastes and accomplishments, he lived on 
 his paternal estate without practising any profession, and divided 
 his time between literature, his farm, and public benefactions. 
 After his death, which occurred in 1835, a volume of his poetry 
 was published, from which I have selected these two beautiful 
 pieces. 
 
 STOWE, Mrs. Harriet Elizabeth Beecher, the daughter 
 of Rev. Lyman Beecher, D.D., was born in Litchfield, Con- 
 necticut, in 1812. In the autumn of 1832 she removed with 
 her father to Cincinnati, Ohio, where the next year appeared 
 lier first publication, the story of Uncle Lot, in Judge Hall's 
 Monthly Magazine. The same year she was married to the 
 Rev. Calvin Stowe, at that time Professor of Languages and 
 Biblical Literature in Lane Theological Seminary. During 
 her residence in Cincinnati she became deeply interested in the 
 question of slavery, from seeing many fugitives from the slave 
 states, and hearing from them their tales of suffering. In 
 
3i8 LYRA SACRA AMERICANA. 
 
 1849 a collection of her pieces written for magazines was pub- 
 lished, entitled The May Flower, 
 
 In 1850 Professor Stowe was called to Brunswick College, 
 Maine, and removed thither with his family. In that year 
 Mrs. Stowe began to write, in a series of numbers in the 
 National Era, that remarkable work, entitled Uncle Tom's 
 Cabin, or Life among the Loivli/, and in 1852 it was published 
 in a book form. Tlie deep interest it excited and the praise 
 it called forth in all lands were such as have seldom, ])erhaps, 
 been equalled. The Edinburgh Review of April 1855 said that 
 more copies of it had been sold than of any other book in this 
 country, the Bible and Prayer Book excepted. 
 
 After this Mrs. Stowe went abroad for her health, and on 
 her return published Sunn?/ Memories in Foreign Lands. 
 Since that she has written The Minister s Wooing ; The Pearl 
 oj Orrs Island; Agnes of Sorrento; Dred, a Tale, &c. 
 S!)e continues to write for our periodicals, chiefly the Atlantic 
 Monthly, Her last papers for that magazine, entitled Little 
 Foxes, have been published in a volume ; — an admirable little 
 book for all households. 
 
 TAPPAN, Rev. William Bingham, was born in Beverly, 
 ^lassachusetts, in 1795. In 1811 he was apprenticed to a 
 clock-maker in Boston. In 1816 he removed to Philadelphia, 
 and established himself in business there : but he soon found 
 that this was not the sphere for him, and he resolved to devote 
 his time to literature, having early given evidence of much 
 talent, and showing an eager thirst for knowledge. In 1819 
 appeared his first volume. New England and other Poems, 
 which was well received. Three or four years after, he was 
 engaged by the American Sunday School Union as salesman 
 and general superintendent of their depository, and to this 
 cause he devoted the rest of his life with great devotion and 
 enthusiasm. From year to year he was sent to Cincinnati, 
 Boston, and other cities to advance the great objects of the 
 Union, and in 1841 he was licensed to preach, that he might 
 with more effect present the cause of the Sunday School to the 
 churches; and it may safely be said that no one man for 
 twenty years laboured more or effected more for this holy 
 object. He died suddenly of cholera in Boston in 1849, deeply 
 and widely lamented. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, 319 
 
 Mr. Tappan's publications were, Poetry of the Heart, 1845 ; 
 Sacred and Miscellaneous Poems, 1846; Poetry of Life, 
 1848 ; The Sunday School and other Poems, 1848 ; Late and 
 Early Poems, 1849. 
 
 TILTON, Rev. Theodore, is a graduate of Yale College, 
 New Haven, and is at present (1868) chief editor of the 
 Independent, a weekly paper, literary and religious, published 
 in New York, which is conducted with great ability, and has a 
 very wide circulation. 
 
 TUCKER, St. George, was born in Bermuda in 1752; 
 but, emigrating to Virginia at an early age, completed his 
 education at " William and Mary College." He studied law, 
 became President of the Court of Appeals of his adopted state, 
 and afterwards Judge of the United States District Court in 
 Eastern Virginia. He held this appointment till his death in 
 1827. He was distinguished for a refined taste, keen wit, and 
 extensive scholastic acquirements. 
 
 VERY, Jones, was born in Salem, Massachusetts, August 
 28, 1813 ; graduated at Harvard University in 1836, and was 
 tutor there from 1836 to 1838. He studied theology at the 
 Cambridge Divinity School, but was never ordained. He now 
 resides in his native place. 
 
 WARE, Rev. Henry, jun., the son of Rev. Henry Ware, 
 D.D., Hollis Professor of Divinity in Harvard College, was 
 born in Hingham, ]\Iassachu setts, in 1793; graduated at 
 Harvard in 1812, and completed his theological studies in 1816. 
 The following year he was elected pastor of the Second Church, 
 Boston. After twelve years of labour, his health becoming 
 impaired, he was dismissed at his own request, and travelled 
 in Europe. On his return he was elected Parkrnan Professor 
 of Pulpit Eloquence and Pastoral Theology in Harvard 
 University, which chair he continued to fill with great ability 
 and acceptance till the year before his death, which occurred 
 in September, 1843. 
 
 His works, consisting of essays, sermons, controversial 
 tracts, poetry, &c., were edited after his death by his friend 
 Rev. Chandler Robins, D.D., and published in four volumes. 
 
 WHITTIER, John Greenleaf, " the noble quaker-poet of 
 
320 LTBA SACRA AMERICANA, 
 
 freedom," was born in Haverhill, Massachusetts, in 1808. In 
 his early years, while at the Academy of his native place, he 
 wrote occasional verses for the Haverhill Gazette, In 1828 
 he went to Boston and became editor of the American Manu- 
 facturer. In 1830 he was invited to the editorship of the 
 New England Weekly Review^ and remained connected with 
 it for about two years, in the mean time publishing a volume 
 of poems and prose sketches entitled Legends of New 
 England. In 1836 he was elected Secretary of the American 
 Anti-Slavery Society, and edited the Pennsylvania Freeman, 
 a weekly paper published in Philadelphia. About this time 
 appeared his longest poem, Mogg Megone, an Indian story. 
 
 In 1840 he removed to Amesbury^ Massachusetts, where all 
 his later publications have been written. In 1847 he became 
 corresponding editor of the National Era published at Wash- 
 ington, District of Columbia, and gave to that able paper no 
 small share of its deserved celebrity. The next year appeared 
 a beautifully illustrated edition of his poems, including his 
 Voices of Freedom, This was followed by Leaves from 
 Margaret Smiths Journal, in 1849; Old Portraits and 
 Modern Sketches, in 1850 ; and Songs of Labour and other 
 Poems, in the same year. His latest work (1866) Snoio 
 Bound, brings before us some charming pictures of New 
 England life in the winter. Mr. Whittier has written much 
 serious poetry, though but very few hymns, strictly so called. 
 He will be most known and honoured and loved in all time as 
 tlie great poet of Freedom at a period when Slavery was 
 rampant in our land. 
 
 WILCOX, Eev. Carlos, was born at Newport, New 
 Hampshire, October 22, 1794, graduated at Middlebury College, 
 Vermont, and studied theology at Andover, Massachusetts. 
 He was settled as pastor of the North Congregational Church, 
 Hartford, Connecticut, but his health, always delicate, began 
 soon to decline rapidly, and after various journeys for its resto- 
 ration, to no purpose, he breathed his last on the 27th of May, 
 1827. His Remains; with a Memoir of his Life was published 
 in 1828 ; containing his two chief poems, The Age of Bene- 
 volence, and The Religion of Taste; and also fourteen 
 Sermons, 
 
 4 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 
 ^ GAIN, as evening shadows fall 154 
 
 Alas ! how swift the moments fly ... . 1 
 
 All are architects of fate 147 
 
 All as God wills, who wisely heeds .... 290 
 
 Although the vine its fruit deny 190 
 
 Always with me I always with me 179 
 
 And is there, Lord, a rest 192 
 
 Another year! another year I 186 
 
 Arise, my soul ! with rapture rise 255 
 
 As flows the rapid river 240 
 
 Away from earth my spirit turns 193 
 
 Bear the burden of the present 164 
 
 Before the Lord we bow 138 
 
 Behold the grant, the King of kings 140 
 
 Behold the western evening light 207 
 
 Beneath the shadow of the cross 155 
 
 Benighted on the troubled main 263 
 
 Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by . . 31 
 
 Beyond where Cedron's waters flow 241 
 
 Bow, angels, from your glorious state 53 
 
 Break ye the bread, and pour the wine 211 
 
 Brightness of the Father's glory 88 
 
 Brother, hast thou wander'd far 63 
 
322 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 
 Calm on the listening ear of night 223 
 
 Child of sin and sorrow 113 
 
 Child that kneelest meekly there 88 
 
 City of God, how broad and far 135 
 
 Come, Holy Ghost, in love 194 
 
 Come, listening spirit, come 227 
 
 Come up hither I come away 180 
 
 Creator Spirit I come and bless us ....... . 83 
 
 Days of my youth, ye have glided away 275 
 
 Dear Friend, whose presence in the house 64 
 
 Do the clouds around thee gather 228 
 
 Down to the sacred wave 242 
 
 Draw nigh to the Holy 165 
 
 Faint not, poor traveller, though thy way 188 
 
 Farewell to thee, brother ! We meet but to part . , 7 
 
 Father ! beneath Thy sheltering wing 39 
 
 Father! in Thy mysterious presence kneeling . . . 136 
 
 Father ! I wait Thy word. The sun doth stand ... 276 
 
 Father of earth and heaven . 281 
 
 Father of Mercies, heavenly Friend 131 
 
 Father of Mercies, hear I 89 
 
 Father, there is no change to live with Thee .... 277 
 
 Father, Thy gentle chastisement 282 
 
 Father, Thy wonders do not singly stand 277 
 
 Father ! to us Thy children, humbly kneeling ... 65 
 
 Feeble, helpfess, how shall I 107 
 
 Fling out the banner ! let it float 90 
 
 For all Thy gifts, we praise Thee, Lord 66 
 
 From every earthly pleasure 87 
 
 Gently, Lord, gently lead us 114 
 
 Go and sow beside all waters 57 
 
 Go forth to life, child of earth I55 
 
 God bless our native land 101 
 
 God of the earth's extended plains 208 
 
 Grant me, great Lord, Thy graces three 91 
 
 Great God ! the followers of Thy Son 283 ' 
 
 Great waves of plenty rolling up . . 59 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 323 
 
 Page 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the holy temple's bell 2 
 
 Hast thou, 'midst life's empty noises ...... 292 
 
 He came not with His heavenly crown 92 
 
 He that goeth forth with weeping 115 
 
 Here, in the broken bread 108 
 
 Holy be this, as was the place ........ 264 
 
 Holy Spirit, truth divine 156 
 
 Home, home ! its glorious threshold 229 
 
 How calm and beautiful the morn 115 
 
 How calmly wakes the hallow'd morn 243 
 
 How pleasing is Thy voice 101 
 
 How sweet the melting lay 28 
 
 Ho ! ye that rest beneath the rock 224 
 
 I cannot look above, and see 84 
 
 I cannot make him dead 212 
 
 I cannot plainly see the way 54 
 
 If thou dost truly seek to live ...*.... 162 
 
 If life's pleasures cheer thee 141 
 
 I had drunk, with lips unsated 60 
 
 I have read of a world of beauty 181 
 
 I love Thy kingdom. Lord 103 
 
 I love to steal, awhile, away 29 
 
 I'll worship the Lord in His house 173 
 
 Infinite Spirit ! who art round us ever 67 
 
 In the beginning was the Word 157 
 
 In the morning I will pray , 109 
 
 In the silent midnight watches 72 
 
 In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale . . 146 
 
 In this glad hour, when children meet 284 
 
 In time of fear 117 
 
 I once made search, in hope to find 269 
 
 I saw a little blade of grass 221 
 
 It came upon the midnight clear 225 
 
 It is finished ! Man of sorrows * . . 125 
 
 It is not death to die 8 
 
 I would not live alway, live alway below I 174 
 
 Jesus, merciful and mild 118 
 
 Jesus, these eyes have never seen 195 
 
324 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 
 Jesus, thou joy of loving hearts 196 
 
 Jesus, when my soul is parting 167 
 
 Joy and gladness ! joy and gladness . . .... 9 
 
 Lead us, Father ! in the paths of peace 40 
 
 Leave me, dear ones, to my slumber 5o 
 
 Let there be light ! The Eternal spoke 130 
 
 Licensed — to make the strong man weak 215 
 
 Lift not thou the wailing voice 94 
 
 Lift your glad voices in triumph on high 285 
 
 Li gilt of the immortal Father's glory 11 
 
 Light waits for us in heaven 57 
 
 Like Israel's hosts to exile driven 286 
 
 Like Noah's weary dove 176 
 
 Live to do good, but not with thought to win .... 12 
 
 Lord, lead the way the Saviour went 85 
 
 Lord of all being ! throned afar 132 
 
 Lord, my weak thought in vain would climb .... 197 
 
 Lord, the shades of night surround us 230 
 
 Lord, who ordainest for mankind 34 
 
 Lord, with glowing heart I'll praise Thee 142 
 
 Love for all I and can it be 159 
 
 Mid the mad whirl of life, its dim confusion .... 258 
 
 Mount up on high, as if on eagles' wings 183 
 
 My country, 'tis of Thee 244 
 
 My faith looks up to Thee 198 
 
 My God, I thank Thee ! may no thought 189 
 
 My God, my Father ! may I dare 143 
 
 No human eyes Thy face may see 127 
 
 Not in the sohtude 35 
 
 Not only doth the voiceful Day 41 
 
 Not with silver, not with gold 216 
 
 Now gird your patient loins again 86 
 
 Now on land and sea descending . 160 
 
 blessed Jesus ! when I see Thee bending 13 
 
 bread to pilgrims given 200 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 325 
 
 Page 
 
 for the happy hour 14 
 
 God, beneath Thy guiding hand 5 
 
 heaven, sweet heaven, the home of the blest . . . 184 
 
 Holy Comforter 201 
 
 holy, holy, holy. Lord 104 
 
 Jesus, when I think of Thee 15 
 
 O Lord of Hosts! Almighty King 133 
 
 O Lord, Thy work revive 119 
 
 O Love divine, that stoop^st to share 134 
 
 sacred Head now wounded 3 
 
 still in accents sweet and strong 161 
 
 O Thou eternal viewless God 106 
 
 Thou, in whom alone is found 287 
 
 Thou, to whom in ancient time 219 
 
 O Thou, who art above all height 220 
 
 O Thou, whose own vast temple stands 37 
 
 Oh, deem not that earth's crowning bliss 42 
 
 Oh, deem not they are bless'd alone 36 
 
 Oh, is there aught on earth to share 110 
 
 Oh, sweetly breathe the lyres above 203 
 
 Oh, walk with God, and thou shalt find 73 
 
 O'er Kedron's stream and Salem's height 217 
 
 One sweetly solemn thought 62 
 
 Onward, onward ! men of heaven 231 
 
 Onward, onward, though the region 137 
 
 Onward speed thy conquering flight 245 
 
 Perfect through sufferings ; may it be 95 
 
 Pilgrims in this vale of sorrow 120 
 
 Planted in Christ, the living vine 246 
 
 Prayer is the dew of faith 232 
 
 Quiet, Lord, this trembling frame 121 
 
 Quietly rest in the arms of aflection . ...... 122 
 
 Remember thy Creator 248 
 
 Return, wanderer, to thy home 122 
 
 Saviour! happy should I be 185 
 
 Saviour ! who Thy flock art feeding 177 
 
326 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 
 Shall we grow weary in our watch . 293 
 
 She died, yet is not dead 272 
 
 Since o'er thy foot-stool here below 178 
 
 Slowly by God's hand unfurled 110 
 
 Softly fades the twilight ray 249 
 
 Softly now the light of day 96 
 
 Soldier, to the contest pressing 74 
 
 Songs in the night full oft are given 123 
 
 Sovereign and transforming grace 127 
 
 Stand up, stand up for Jesus 99 
 
 Stealing from the world away 204 
 
 Still as our day our strength shall be . . . , . . 76 
 
 Still, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh . 259 
 
 Still will we trust, though earth seem dark and dreary . 43 
 
 Strangers no more we wildly rove 105 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers ..... . . 148 
 
 Thanks for the sabbath's holy ray ! 233 
 
 That mystic word of Thine, sovereign Lord .... 260 
 
 The bud will soon become a flower 278 
 
 The Christian banner ! Dread no loss 163 
 
 The earth, all light and loveliness 168 
 
 The moon is up ! how calm and slow 210 
 
 The morning light is breaking . 250 
 
 The organ play'd sweet music 77 
 
 The Spirit, in our hearts 191 
 
 There's a beautiful land by the spoiler untrod ... 44 
 
 There is an hour of peaceful rest 265 
 
 There is a reaper, whose name is Death 150 
 
 There is no change of time and place with Thee . . . 279 
 
 There is no flock, however watch'd and tended . . . 151 
 
 They dread no storm that lowers 234 
 
 They who have kept their spirit's virgin whiteness • . 46 
 
 Thine holy day's returning 205 
 
 This book is all that's left me now 172 
 
 Thou art the Way, to Thee alone 97 
 
 Thou, infinite in love ! 169 
 
 Thou, who didst stoop below 170 
 
 Thou, who look'st with pitying eye 47 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. ^^l 
 
 Page 
 
 Thousands completely fed 69 
 
 Through the changes of the day • 50 
 
 Thy cruel crown of thorns 273 
 
 'Tis He, 'tis He, I know Him now 16 
 
 'Tis midnight, and on Olives' brow 266 
 
 To prayer, to prayer, for the morning breaks . . . . 288 
 
 Toss'd upon life's raging billow 17 
 
 To the High and Holy One 112 
 
 To Thine eternal arms, God 128 
 
 Trembling before Thine awful throne 128 
 
 Upon the well by Sychar's gate 18 
 
 Watcher, who watchest by the bed of pain .... 235 
 
 We are living — we are dwelling 80 
 
 We ask not that our path be always bright .... 51 
 
 We come to the fountain, we stand by the wave ... 20 
 
 We come, we come, with loud acclaim 21 
 
 We mourn for those who toil 237 
 
 We may not climb the heavenly steeps 294 
 
 We praise Thee, Saviour, for the grace 206 
 
 Weep not for the saint that ascends 6 
 
 Westward, Lord, the world alluring 82 
 
 What can I do the cause of God to aid 70 
 
 When adverse winds and waves arise. . . ... 238 
 
 When gladness gilds our prosperous day 52 
 
 When he, who from the scourge of wrong 38 
 
 When, on devotion's seraph wing 171 
 
 When on His mission from His home in heaven . . . 256 
 
 When sorrow casts its shade around 267 
 
 When thy mortal life is fled 251 
 
 When time seems short, and death is near .... 22 
 
 When troubles, wave on wave, assail' d 145 
 
 When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean .... 262 
 
 While in this sacred rite of Thine 252 
 
 While the solemn note of time 269 
 
 Why lament the Christian dying 124 
 
 Wilt Thou not visit me 280 
 
 Within her downy cradle there lay a little child ... 23 
 
328 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 
 Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief .... 295 
 
 Wrapt in the robe of faith 239 
 
 Yes, bear them to their rest 26 
 
 Yes, it is a faithful saying 98 
 
 Yes, my native land, I love thee 253 
 
 Young soldier of the cross, beware 71 
 
 710 'i 
 
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 CHISWICK press; PRINTED BY WHITTINGHAM AND WILKINS, 
 
 TOOKS COURT, CPIANCERY LANE. 
 

 
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