AFFLICTION. II. Cor. iv. 17, 18. THE path of sorrow, and that path alone, To rescue from the ruins of mankind ; O salutary streams that murmur there! COWPER. THE EVENING HOUR. It is an hour of holy hush and calm, Of dewy stillness breathing from each vale, Of birds' low vesper, and of fragrant balm, Borne whispering low upon the twilight gale; With faint sound mingled of the distant chime Of Sabbath-bell at this calm even-time. It is an hour of rest to all the earth: The village-hamlet and its noise are still, And hush'd to sleep is childhood's voice of mirth, And nought is heard but the low singing rill; Or voice of bell from yonder ivied tower, With solemn sound proclaiming the past hour. It is an hour when twilight shadows rise, Telling of realms beyond the silent tomb; While night comes on with her lone starry train, And the young moon sheds forth her light again. It is an hour when holy thoughts arise, An hour to bend in still and solemn prayer, To call each thought back to those starry skies, And view with wonder those bright myriads there, Spread out afar by the same wondrous power, Who gave to wearied man eve's tranquil hour. ARLISS. THE VILLAGE CHURCH-YARD. WHAT a varying scene is a village church-yard, 'Tis the Sabbath morn, and the pealing bell Tolls deep from the ivied tower; While the oaken porch and the neighbouring yew Are throng'd by the crowds who attend to renew Their vows at that sacred hour. With that holy calm, that composure of soul, With devotion diffusing sweet peace through the breast, They hail the return of the day of rest, It is evening and now from the turret grey And I see in the distance a funeral train It was lately I stood by a sister's grave, And now as I join with the sorrowing band, 'Tis the moment the beautiful prayer has been said, And the earth has been closed o'er the loved one dead How deep is the agony? But the evening is pass'd, and the mourners are gone, And the sun rises smiling and gay; And now, oh how changed is the village green! How changed is the church-yard where sadness had been, On the eve of the Sabbath-day! Again the old tower rings a merry peal, But I sigh, though I've looked on the bridal maid, For oh! what is life ?—'tis a varying scene, SUBMISSION. AMIDST the various scenes of ills, Peace, rebel thoughts, I'll not complain, Though heaven afflict, I'll not repine, COTTON. DIVINE LOVE. THERE's nothing bright, above, below, From flower that blooms to stars that glow, But in its light my soul can see Some feature of the Deity.. There's nothing dark, below, above, MOORE. |