Thy messenger, the stormy wind,
Thy path, the trackless main-
These speak of thee with loud acclaim;
They thunder forth thy praise,
The glorious honor of thy name,
The wonders of thy ways:
But thou art not in tempest-flame,
Nor in day's glorious blaze.
We hear thy voice, when thunders roll,
Through the wide fields of air;
The waves obey thy dread control;-
Yet still thou art not there.
Where shall I find him, O my soul,
Who yet is everywhere?
O, not in circling depth, or height,
But in the conscious breast,
Present to faith, though veil'd from sight,
There does his spirit rest.
O come, thou Presence Infinite,
And make thy creature blest.
TO A FRIEND UNDER CALUMNY.
66 ""Tis from the Lord," the humbled monarch cried, "Even let him curse." And so he kiss'd the rod, O'erlook'd the injurer, and bow'd to God.
O majesty of meekness, which defied
The impotence of tongues, and calm relied
On him who judgeth righteously! "From men Who are thy sword,”—so pray'd the sufferer then,— "From evil tongues, thy scourge, and men of pride, O Lord, deliver me!" Yet, who can tell,
But those who have endured, how keen the pain That Slander's fangs, tongues set on fire of hell,
And venom'd whispers that inflict a stain,
Can cause the innocent man? But O, 't is great Meekly to suffer wrong, and feel it causeless hate.
WHEN thou art in thy chamber, and thy knee
Is bow'd in love to the Omnipotent,
And when thy soul before his throne is bent,
Ask not for prosperous things; but pray that he
Will purify thee with the chastisement
Of earthly wo and trouble, which are sent To fit the high soul for eternity.
It is not in the summer tide of life
That the heart hoards its treasures: it is when
The storm is loud, and the rude hurricane
Of sorrow is abroad; when solemn strife,
Such as may move the souls of constant men,
Is struggling in our bosoms,-it is then
The heart collects her stores with wisdom rife.
For sadness teaches us the truth of things
Which had been hid beneath the crown of flowers Which gladness wears; and the few silent hours Of quiet, heavenward thought which sorrow brings, Are better than a life in pleasure's bowers, Drinking the poisonous chalice which she pours, To quench our heavenlier spirits' murmurings.
Seek thou the storms of life; fly not the trial
That binds the conqueror's wreath upon thy brow;
And faint not, though the tears of anguish flow,
And though upon thy head the angry vial
Of fate be pour'd: but with the conscious glow
Of honorable thought and deed below,
Look to that Power who watch'd thy self-denial.
O THE wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing!
Like the tempest that withers the blossoms of spring,
Like the thunder that bursts on the summer's domain,
It fell on the head of the homicide Cain.
And lo! like a deer in the fright of a chase,
With a fire in his heart, and a brand on his face,
He speeds him afar to the desert of Nod—
A vagabond smote by the vengeance of God.
All nature to him has been blasted and bann'd,
For the blood of a brother yet reeks on his hand;
And no vintage has grown, and no fountain has sprung
For cheering his heart, or for cooling his tongue.
The groans of a father his slumber shall start,
And the tears of a mother shall pierce to his heart,
And the kiss of his children shall scorch him like flame,
When he thinks of the curse that hangs over his name.
And the wife of his bosom-the faithful and fair-
Can mix no sweet drop in his cup of despair;
For her tender caress, and her innocent breath,
But stir in his soul the hot embers of wrath.
And his offering may blaze-unregarded by Heaven;
And his spirit may pray—yet remain unforgiven;
And his grave may be closed-but no rest to him bring:
O the wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing!
TO-MORROW!-mortal, boast not thou
Of time and tide that are not now!
But think, in one revolving day
How earthly things may pass away!
To-day-while hearts with rapture spring,
The youth to beauty's lip may cling;
To-morrow-and that lip of bliss
May sleep unconscious of his kiss.
To-day-the blooming spouse may press
Her husband in a fond caress;
To-morrow-and the hands that press'd
May wildly strike her widow'd breast.
To-day-the clasping babe may drain
The milk-stream from its mother's vein;
To-morrow-like a frozen rill,
That bosom-current may be still.
To-day-thy merry heart may feast
On herb and fruit, and bird and beast;
To-morrow-spite of all thy glee,
The hungry worms may feed on thee.
To-morrow!-mortal, boast not thou
Of time and tide that are not now!
But think, in one revolving day
That even thyself mayest pass away.
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