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DEAR is the hallowed morn to me, When village bells awake the day! And by their sacred minstrelsy, Call me from earthly cares away. And dear to me, the winged hour, Spent in thy hallowed courts, O Lord, To feel devotion's soothing power, And catch the manna of thy word. And dear to me the loud amen Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells, and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God. And dear the simple melody, Sung with the pomp of rustic art; That boly, heavenly harmony, The music of a thankful heart. · In secret I have often prayed, And still the anxious tear would fall; But, on the sacred altar laid, The fire descends and dries them all. Oft when the world, with iron hands Has bound me in its six days' chain, This bursts them, like the strong man's bands, And lets my spirit loose again. Then, dear to me, the Sabbath morn, The village bells, the shepherd's voice, These oft have found my heart forlorn, And always bid that heart rejoice.
Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
[CAMPBELL.] When Jordan hushed his waters still, And silence slept on Zion hill; When Bethlehem's shepherds through the night, Watched o'er their flocks by starry light; Hark! from the midnight hills around, A voice of more than mortal sound, In distant hallelujahs stole, Wild murmuring o'er the raptured soul. Then swift to every startled eye, New streams of glory light the sky; Heaven bursts her azure gates to pour Her spirits to the midnight hour. On wheels of light, on wings of flame, The glorious hosts of Zion came ; High heaven with songs of triumph rung, While thus they struck their harps and sung. o Zion ! lift thy raptured eye, The long-expected hour is nigh ; The joys of nature rise again, The Prince of Salem comes to reign. See, Mercy, from her golden urn, Pours a rich stream to them that mourn, Behold, she binds with tender care, The bleeding bosom of despair.
He comes! to cheer the trembling heart,
Salvation ! oh, Salvation !
(CAROLINE FRY.] GRACE does not steel the faithful heart,
That it should know no ill;
And feel its sharpness still.
To those the world must shed !
As the heart from which they sped. The saint may be compellid to meet
Misfortune's saddest blow;
The keenest pang of woe.
There is a hand unseen,
And bide where it has been.
The Christian would not have his lot
Be other than it is :
He knows that world is his.
Will give him all heside;
Is evil, if denied.
His boson owns no fear;
His God will still be there.
Whate'er the trial may be, Something yet whispers him within,
• Be still, for it is He !'
From the afflictive stroke ;
Impatient nature spoke.
Its sorrow to disown;
The choice was not his own.
(PERCY.] THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate,
Death lays his icy hands on kings :