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PROSPECT OF THE HEAVENLY
PARAPHRASE OF CXXII. PSALM.*
WHAT joy, while thus I view the day,
That warns my thirsting soul away ; What transports fill my breast ! For lo! my great Redeemer's power Unfolds the everlasting door,
And leads me to his rest.
The festal morn, my God, is come,
That calls me to the hallow'd dome,
Thy presence to adore ;
My feet the summons shall attend,
With willing steps thy courts ascend,
And tread th' etherial floor.
Ev’n now to my expecting eyes
The heaven-built towers of Salem rise ;
Ev'n now, with glad survey,
I view her mansions, that contain
Th' angelic forms, an awful train,
And shine with cloudless day.
Hither from earth's remotest end,
Lo! the redeem'd of God ascend,
Their tribute hither bring :
Here, crown'd with everlasting joy,
In hymns of praise their tongues employ,
And hail the immortal King.
Mother of cities ! o'er thy head
See Peace, with healing wings outspread,
Delighted fix her stay!
How blest who calls himself thy friend!
Success his labours shall attend,
And safety guard his way.
Thy walls remote from hostile fear,
Nor the loud voice of tumult hear,
Nor war's wild wastes deplore ;
There smiling Plenty takes her stand,
And in thy courts with lavish hand,
Has pour'd forth all her store.
Let me, blest seat! my name behold,
Among thy citizens enrollid,
In thee for ever dwell :
Let Charity my steps attend,
My sole companion and my friend,
And Faith and Hope, farewell !
TES, there are moments which he calls his own.
Then, never less alone than when alone,
Those that he loved so long and sees no more,
Loved and still loves—not dead-but gone before,
He gathers round him, and revives at will
Scenes in his life--that breathe enchantment still-
That come not now at dreary intervals-
But where a light as from the Blessed falls,
A light such guests bring ever-pure and holy-
Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy!
-Ah then less willing (nor the choice condemn)
To live with others than to think on them !
And now behold him up the hill ascending,
Memory and Hope like evening stars attending;
Sustain’d, excited, till his course is run,
By deeds of virtue done or to be done.
When on his couch he sinks at length to rest,
Those by his counsel saved, his
Those by the world shunn'd ever as unblest,
At whom the rich man's dog growls from the gate ;
But whom he sought out, sitting desolate,
Come and stand round-the widow with her child,
As when she first forgot her tears and smiled!
They who watch by him, see not; but he sees,
Sees and exults-Were ever dreams like these ?
They who watch by him, hear not; but he hears,
And Earth recedes, and Heaven itself appears !
'Tis past! That hand we grasp’d, alas, in vain !
Nor shall we look upon his face again!
But to his closing eyes, for all were there,
Nothing was wanting ; and, through many a year
We shall remember with a fond delight
The words so precious which we heard to-night;
His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows,
Like setting suns or music at the close.
Then was the drama ended. Not till then,
So full of chance and change the lives of men,
Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure
From pain, from grief, and all that we endure,
He slept in peace-say rather soar’d to heaven,
Upborne from earth by Him to whom 'tis given
In his right hand to hold the golden key
That opes the portals of Eternity.
- When by a good man's grave I muse alone,
Methinks an angel sits upon the stone ;
Like those of old, on that thrice-hallow'd night,
Who sate and watched in raiment heavenly-bright,
And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear,
Says, pointing upward, “ Know, he is not here,
He is risen !”
THE DEATH OF A CHRISTIAN.
YHOU art gone to the grave,-but we will not
deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour has pass’d through its portals before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the
Thou art gone to the grave,ếwe no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world hy thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may hope since the Sinless hath died.
Thou art gone to the grave,-but 'twere wrong to
deplore thee, When God was thy father, thy guardian, thy guide : He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore
thee, Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath
THE DEATH OF THE YOUNG MOTHER.
T was an April day; and blithely all
The youth of nature leap'd beneath the sun, And promis'd glorious manhood; and our hearts Were glad, and round them danced the lightsome