Though in the paths of death I tread, Though, in a bare and rugged way, THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. WHEN, marshall'd on the nightly plain, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud, the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd, and rudely blow'd The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze, When suddenly a star arose, It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all, Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er, The Star!-the Star of Bethlehem! THE POWER OF GOD. THE Lord our God is full of might, Rebel, ye waves, and o'er the land With threatening aspect roar; Howl, winds of night, your force combine; Disturb the sparrow's nest. His voice sublime is heard afar, In distant peals it dies; He yokes the whirlwinds to his car, Ye nations, bend, in reverence bend, To celebrate the God! ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. COME, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad; Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine. Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears, with faint eye, the lingering knell, That tells her hopes are dead · And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, "My all was not laid here." Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, For thou severe wert sent from heaven To wean me from the world: To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun-a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. O, what is Beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er Beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. The most beloved on earth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 't was sweet, 't was passing sweet, But now 't is gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. Then since this world is vain, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat? Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? Come, Disappointment, come! To thee I bend my knee : My race will run, I only bow, and say, "My God, thy will be done!" ON HEARING THE CLOCK STRIKE TWELVE AT NIGHT, DECEMBER 31st. KNELL of departed years, Thy voice is sweet to me: Time's restless course to see; I hear the sound Diffusing through the air a holy calm around. |