For all thou hast done, Since thy rising, oh! Sun, May thou and thy Maker be blest. Thou hast scattered the night from thy broad golden way, [day, Thou hast given us thy light through a long happy Thou hast roused up the birds, thou hast waken'd the flowers, To chant on thy path, and to perfume the hours. Then slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, And rise again beautiful, blessing, and blest. Slow, slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, Yet pause but a moment to shed One warm look of love on the earth's dewy breast, Ere the starr'd curtain fall round thy bed, And to promise the time, When, awaking sublime, Thou shalt rush all refresh'd from thy rest, Warm hopes drop like dews from thy life-giving hand, [expand; Teaching hearts closed in darkness like flowers to Dreams wake into joys when first touch'd by thy light, As glow the dim waves of the sea at thy sight. Then slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, And rise again beautiful, blessing, and blest. Slow, slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, Prolonging the sweet evening hour; Then robe again soon in the morn's golden vest, To go forth in thy beauty and power. Yet pause on thy way, To the full height of day, For thy rising and setting are blest. When thou com'st after darkness, to gladden our eyes, Or departest in glory, in glory to rise, May hopeand may prayer still be woke by thy rays, And thy going be mark'd with thanksgiving and praise. Then slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, And rise again beautiful, blessing, and blest. THE PILGRIM'S SONG. H. F. Lyte. My rest is in heaven, my rest is not here; It is not for me to be seeking my bliss And building my hopes in a region like this; The thorn and the thistle around me may grow— I would not lie down upon roses below: Afflictions may damp, they cannot destroy; Let doubt, then, and danger, my progress oppose; They only make heaven more sweet at the close; Come joy, or come sorrow-whate'er may befal, An hour with my God will make up for it all. A scrip on my back, and a staff in my hand, song. SABBATH EVENING. Edmeston. ANOTHER day has pass'd along, These moments of departing day, When thought is calm, and labours cease, Are surely solemn times to pray, To ask for pardon and for peace. Thou God of mercy, swift to hear, More swift than man to tell his need; Be THOU to us this evening near, And to thy fount our spirits lead. Teach us to pray—and, having taught, Sweet is the light of sabbath eve, And soft the sunbeam lingering there; Those sacred hours this low earth leave, Wafted on wings of praise and prayer. This time, how lovely and how still! Peace shines, and smiles on all below; The plain, the stream, the wood, the hill, All fair with evening's setting glow! Season of rest! the tranquil soul Feels thy sweet calm, and melts in love; And while these sacred moments roll, Faith sees a smiling heaven above. How short the time, how soon the sun And soon the hours of rest are done, Then morrow brings the world again. Yet will our journey not be long, |