And teach my stubborn soul to bend, In love to thy decree. Whatever come, if thou wilt bless And temper joy, and soothe distress, Life cannot give a cureless sting, PHILADELPHIA. M. II. As the hart panteth after the water-brooks, PSALM XLII. 1. THE stricken Arab hart had fled Far from the streamlet's side, And on the desart's fiery bed, Had drooped, and sunk, and died. Whilst all around was scorched and bare, And strength and hope were gone, He made his last, his burning lair, Unfriended and alone. Oh! what an agony to think How far his native rill! Its crystal fount, its grassy brink, In fancy fresher still. But stricken hart ne'er panted more, When life was on the wing, For cooling brook and grassy shore, Fountain of glory, grace and love, And let not, Lord, my spirit rove Lest I, too, make my burning lair, In that dark desart-world of care, Where fancy paints the verdant plain, Of Heaven, to barb the dart of pain, Poor Dives! what a hart-like doom: From out that fiery glow, You saw the fields of Eden bloom, And heard its waters flow; E'en to a beggar meanly clung, In suppliant's humblest strain, And asked one drop to cool your tongue, And asked that drop in vain. PHILADELPHIA. M. |