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KING of the dead ! how long shall sweep
Thy wrath! how long thy casts weep !
Two thousand agonizing years
Has Israel steeped her bread in tears;
The vial on her head been pour'd-
Flight, famine, shame, the scourge, the sword !
'Tis done! Has breathed thy trumpet blast;
The tribes at length have wept their last !
On rolls the host! From land and wave
The earth sends up th' unransomed slave!
There rides no glittering chivalry,
No banner purples in the sky;
The world within their hearts has died;
Two thousand years have slain their pride!
The look of pale remorse is there,
The lip, involuntary prayer;
The form still mark'd with many a stain-
Brand of the soil, the scourge, the chain;
The serf of Afric's fiery ground;
The slave by lodian suns embrowned;
The weary drudges of the oar,
By the swart Arab's poisoned shore;
The gatherings of earth's wildest tract-
On bursts the living cataract!
What strength of man can check its speed ?
They come !-the Nation of the Freed !

Who leads their march ? Beneath his wheel
Back rolls the sea, the mountains reel!
Before their tread his trump is blown,
Who speaks in thunder and 'tis done!
King of the dead ! oh! not in vain
Was thy long pilgrimage of pain;
Oh, not in vain arose thy prayer,
When pressed the thorn thy temples bare!
Oh, not in vain the voice that cried,
To spare thy maddened homicide!
Even for this hour thy heart's blood streamed!
They come !-the Host of the Redeemed!
What flames upon the distant sky ?
'Tis not the comet's sanguine dye,
'Tis not the lightning's quivering spire,
'Tis not the sun's ascending fire.
And now, as nearer speeds their march,
Expands the rainbow's mighty arch ;
Though there has burst no thunder cloud,
No flash of death the soil has ploughed,
And still ascends before their

Arch upon arch, the lovely blaze;
Still as the gorgeous clouds unfold,
Rise towers and domes, immortal mould.
Scenes ! that the patriarch's visioned eye
Beheld, and then rejoiced to die ;-
That like the altar's burning coal,
Touch'd the pale prophet's harp with soul;—
That the throned seraphs long to see,
Now given, thou slave of slaves to thee!
Whose city this ? what potentate
Sits there ?— The King of time and fate!
Whom glory covers like a robe,
Whose sceptre shakes the solid globe,
Whom shapes of fire and splendour guard !
There sits the Man whose face was marred,'

To whom archangels bow the knee-
The Weeper in Gethsemane !
Down in the dust, aye, Israel, kneel,
For now thy withered heart can feel!
Aye, let thy wan cheek burn like flame,
There sits thy glory and thy shame!


LEAVES have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death.

Day is for mortal care,
Eve for glad glidings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer, But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!

The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears—but all are thine !

Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee!--but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey!

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death.

We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ?

ls it when roses in our path grow pale? They have one season-all are ours to die !

Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art wh music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there!

Thou art where friend meets friend Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death.



• I BADE the Day-break bring to me
Its own sweet song of ecstacy :
An answer came from leafy trees,
And waking birds, and wandering hees,
And wavelets on the water's brim
The matin hymn-the matin hymu!

I asked the Noon for music then:
It echoed forth the hum of men;
The sounds of labour on the wind,
The loud-voiced eloquence of mind ;
The heart—the soul's sublime pulsations-
The song the shout-the shock of nations.
I hastened from the restless throng,
To soothe me with the Evening song :
The darkening heaven was vocal still,
I heard the music of the rill
The home-bound bee-the vesper bell-
The cicada-and pbilomel.
Thou Omnipresent Harmony !
Shades, streams, and stars are full of thee;
On every wing-in every sound,
Thine all-pervading power is found;
Some chord to touch-some tale to tell-
Deep-deep within the Spirit's cell.”



DEATHLESS principle, arise !
Soar, thou native of the skies!
Pearl of price by Jesus bought,
To his glorious likeness wrought,
Go, to shine before his throne,
Deck his mediatorial crown;
Go, his triumphs to adorn,
Made for God, to God return.

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