L. M.

633.

DODDRIDGE.

The weeping Seed-time and joyful Harvest. Psalm 126.

1 The darkened sky, how thick it lowers !

Troubled with storms, and big with showers;
No cheerful gleam of light appears,
But Nature pours forth all her tears.

2 Yet let the sons of

grace revive;
God bids the soul that seeks him live,
And from the gloomiest shade of night
Calls forth a morning of delight.

3 The seeds of ecstasy unknown

Are in these watered furrows sown;
See the green blades, how thick they rise,

And with fresh verdure bless our eyes ! 4 In secret foldings they contain

Unnumbered ears of golden grain ;
And heaven shall pour its beams around,
Till the ripe harvest load the ground.
Then shall the trembling mourner come,
And bind his sheaves, and bear them horne:
The voice long broke with sighs shall sing,
Till heaven with hallelujahs ring.

5

L. M.

634.

BRYANT.

Blessed are they that mourn.

| DEEM not that they are blest alone

Whose days a peaceful tenor keep;
The God who loves our race has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.

2 The light of smiles shall fill again

The lids that overflow with tears,
And weary hours of woe and pain
Are earnests of serener years.

3 O there are days of hope and rest

For every dark and troubled night!
And grief may bide, an evening guest,

But joy shall come with early light.
4 And thou, who o’er thy friend's low bier,

Dost shed the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere,

Will give him to thy arms again.
5 For God hath marked each anguished day,

And numbered every secret tear;
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.

8 & 4s. M.

S FROM THE SPANISH OP 635.

Don JORGE MANRIQUE.
Vanity of the World.
i Alas! how poor and little worth
Are all those glittering toys of earth

That lure us here!
Dreams of a sleep that death must break :
Alas! before it bids us wake,

They disappear.
2 Where is the strength that spurned decay,
The step that rolled so light and gay,

The heart's blithe tone ?
The strength is gone, the step is slow,
And joy grows weariness and woe
When

age comes on.

3 Our birth is but a starting-place; Life is the running of the race,

And death the goal : There all those glittering toys are brought; That path alone, of all unsought,

Is found of all.

4 O let the soul its slumbers break,
Arouse its senses, and awake

To see how soon
Life, like its glories, glides away,
And the stern footsteps of decay

Come stealing on.

i BENEATH our feet and o'er our head

Is equal warning given; Beneath us lie the countless dead,

Above us is the heaven!

2 Their names are graven on the stone,

Their bones are in the clay ; And ere another day is done,

Ourselves may be as they.
3 Death rides on every passing breeze,

He lurks in every flower ;
Each season has its own disease,

Its peril every hour.
4 Our eyes have seen the rosy light

Of youth's soft cheek decay,
And death descend in sudden night

On manhood's middle day.

5 Our eyes have seen the steps of age

Halt feebly towards the tomb;
And yet shall earth our hearts engage,

And dreams of days to come ? 6 Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know;

Where'er thy foot can tread,
The earth rings hollow from below,

And warns thee of her dead.
7 Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply

To truths divinely given;
The boundless fields of light on high

Remind thee of thy heaven.

C. M.

637. DODDRIDGE.

Near Approach of Salvation. 1 AWAKE, ye saints, and raise your eyes,

And raise your voices high; Awake, and praise that sovereign love,

That shows salvation nigh. 2 On all the wings of time it flies;

Each moment brings it near; Then welcome each declining day!

Welcome each closing year!
3 Not many years their round shall run,

Not many mornings rise,
Ere all its glories stand revealed

To our admiring eyes. 4 Ye wheels of nature, speed your course;

Ye mortal powers, decay;
Fast as ye bring the night of death,

Ye bring eternal day.

S. M.

638.

DODDRIDGE

Tracing the Steps of the Pious Dead.
How swift the torrent rolls,

That bears us to the sea !
The tide that bears our thoughtless souls

To vast eternity!

2

Our fathers, where are they,

With all they call their own? Their joys and griefs, and hopes and cares,

And wealth and honor, gone.

3

God of our fathers! hear;

Thou everlasting Friend!
While we, as on life's utmost verge,

Our souls to thee commend.

4

Of all the pious dead
May we the footsteps trace,
Till with them, in the land of light,

We dwell before thy face.

L. M.

639.

BARBAULD.

Blessedness of the Righteous in Death.
1 How blest the righteous when he dies!

When sinks a weary soul to rest,
How mildly beam the closing eyes!

How gently heaves the expiring breast! 2 So fades a summer cloud away;

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er ;
So gently shuts the eye of day;
So dies a wave along the shore.