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THERE'S grandeur in the sounding storm,
That drives the hurrying clouds along,
That on each other seem to throng,
And mix in many a varied form;
While, bursting now and then between,
The moon's dim misty orb is seen,
And casts faint glimpses on the green.
Beneath the blasts the forests bend,
And thick the branchy ruin lies,
And wide the shower of foliage flies,
The lake's black waves in tumult blend;
Revolving o'er, and o'er, and o'er,
And foaming on the rocky shore,
Whose caverns echo to their roar.
The sight sublime enwraps my thought,
And swift along the past it strays,
And much of strange event surveys,
What History's faithful tongue has taught
Or Fancy form'd, whose plastie skill
The page with fabled change can fill,
Of ill to good, or good to ill.
But can my soul the scene enjoy
That rends another's breast with pain?
O helpless he who near the main,
Now sees its billowy rage destroy.
Beholds the foundering bark descend,
Nor knows but what its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend.
YOUNG PERSON WITH A WATCH.
WHILE this gay toy attracts thy sight,
Thy reason let it warn;
And seize, my Dear, that rapid time
That never must return.
If idly lost, no art nor care
The blessing can restore;
And Heav'n requires a strict account
Of ev'ry mis-spent hour.
Short is our longest day of life,
And soon its prospect ends;
Yet on that day's uncertain date
Yet equal to our being's aim
The space to virtue giv❜n;
And ev'ry minute well improv'd,
Secures an age in Heav'n.
THERE is a fountain fill'd with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins !
And sinners, plung'd beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.
The dying thief rejoic'd to see
That fountain in his day;
And there may I, as vile as he,
Wash all my
Dear dying Lamb! thy precious blood
Shall never lose its pow'r,
"Till all the ransom'd church of God
Be sav'd, to sin no more.
E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die.
Then in a nobler, sweeter song,
I'll sing thy power to save;
When this poor lisping stamm'ring tongue
Lies silent in the grave.
Lord, I believe thou hast prepar'd,
Unworthy though I be,
For me a blood-bought free reward,
A golden harp for me!
SHORTNESS OF LIFE.
How short is the life of a man!
How soon his frail life must decay! At best but the length of a span,
And fades like a short winter's day.
In youth how forgetful he seems
Of age, that's still hurrying on; At length he awakes from his dreams, But ah! his best moments are gone!
Then, hurry'd away with his cares,
His life is but labour and pain;
Old age is the garment he wears;
He wishes for youth, but in vain.
Now, crush'd with the load of his sin,
He trembles at death's cold alarms,
But just recollects where he's been,
And yields to the conqueror's arms.
But reason no farther can go,-
He stands at the bar of his God:
Now sinks to the regions of woe,
Or heaven he makes his abode : Let youth, then, no longer delay, Since time makes so rapid a flight; If you work while it's called day, You may hail the approach of to-night.
ALAS! what hourly dangers rise,
What snares beset my way!
Of these, my soul, be still apprized,
And lonely watch and pray.
The world, the devil, and the flesh,
My feeble soul invade;
I find my own resistance vain
Without my Saviour's aid.
Whene'er temptations would allure,
Or fill my heart with dread,
My God, thy powerful grace impart,
To help in time of need.
May fear of Thee, and dread of sin,
My watchful soul possess ;
And lively faith and joyful hope
My vigilance increase.
Help me to pray, and watch, and strive;
O bid the tempter flee!
And let me never, never stray
From happiness and Thee!
AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove :
"Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar,
A hermit his song of the night thus began,
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man.
Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For spring shall return and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet if pity inspire thee, ah, cease not thy lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn O soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass awayFull quickly they pass, but they never return.
'Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguished, her crescent displays;
But lately I marked, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again,
But man's faded glory no change shall renew,
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!