THOU LOVEST NO MORE.

Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken
  Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er;
Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken,
  Thou lovest no more—thou lovest no more.

Tho' kindly still those eyes behold me,
  The smile is gone, which once they wore;
Tho' fondly still those arms enfold me,
  'Tis not the same—thou lovest no more.

Too long my dream of bliss believing,
  I've thought thee all thou wert before;
But now—alas! there's no deceiving,
  'Tis all too plain, thou lovest no more.

Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken,
  As lost affection's life restore,
Give peace to her that is forsaken,
  Or bring back him who loves no more.

WHEN ABROAD IN THE WORLD.

When abroad in the world thou appearest.
  And the young and the lovely are there,
To my heart while of all thou'rt the dearest.
  To my eyes thou'rt of all the most fair.
    They pass, one by one,
      Like waves of the sea,
    That say to the Sun,
      "See, how fair we can be."
  But where's the light like thine,
  In sun or shade to shine?
No—no, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
      Nothing like thee.

Oft, of old, without farewell or warning,
  Beauty's self used to steal from the skies;
Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning,
  And post down to earth in disguise;
    But, no matter what shroud
      Around her might be,
    Men peeped through the cloud,
      And whispered, "'Tis She."
  So thou, where thousands are,
  Shinest forth the only star,—
Yes, yes, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
      Nothing like thee.

KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE.

Keep those eyes still purely mine,
  Tho' far off I be:
When on others most they shine,
  Then think they're turned on me.

Should those lips as now respond
  To sweet minstrelsy,
When their accents seem most fond,
  Then think they're breathed for me.

Make what hearts thou wilt thy own,
  If when all on thee
Fix their charmed thoughts alone,
  Thou think'st the while on me.

HOPE COMES AGAIN.

Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger,
  Once more she sings me her flattering strain;
But hush, gentle syren—for, ah, there's less danger
  In still suffering on, than in hoping again.

Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining,
  Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain:
And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining
  O'er eyelids long darkened, would bring me but pain.

Fly then, ye visions, that Hope would shed o'er me;
  Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest
Now lies not in dreaming of bliss that's before me.
  But, ah—in forgetting how once I was blest.

O SAY, THOU BEST AND BRIGHTEST.

O say, thou best and brightest,
  My first love and my last.
When he, whom now thou slightest,
  From life's dark scene hath past,
Will kinder thoughts then move thee?
  Will pity wake one thrill
For him who lived to love thee,
  And dying loved thee still?

If when, that hour recalling
  From which he dates his woes,
Thou feel'st a tear-drop falling,
  Ah, blush not while it flows;
But, all the past forgiving,
  Bend gently o'er his shrine,
And say, "This heart, when living,
  "With all its faults, was mine."

WHEN NIGHT BRINGS THE HOUR.

When night brings the hour
  Of starlight and joy,
There comes to my bower
  A fairy-winged boy;
With eyes so bright,
  So full of wild arts,
Like nets of light,
  To tangle young hearts;
With lips, in whose keeping
  Love's secret may dwell,
Like Zephyr asleep in
  Some rosy sea-shell.
Guess who he is,
  Name but his name,
And his best kiss
  For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground
  He prints his light feet.
The flowers there are found
  Most shining and sweet:
His looks, as soft
  As lightning in May,
Tho' dangerous oft,
  Ne'er wound but in play:
And oh, when his wings
  Have brushed o'er my lyre,
You'd fancy its strings
  Were turning to fire.
Guess who he is,
  Name but his name,
And his best kiss
  For reward you may claim.

LIKE ONE WHO, DOOMED.

Like one who, doomed o'er distant seas
  His weary path to measure,
When home at length, with favoring breeze,
  He brings the far-sought treasure;

His ship, in sight of shore, goes down,
  That shore to which he hasted;
And all the wealth he thought his own
  Is o'er the waters wasted!

Like him, this heart, thro' many a track
  Of toil and sorrow straying,
One hope alone brought fondly back,
  Its toil and grief repaying.

Like him, alas, I see that ray
  Of hope before me perish,
And one dark minute sweep away
  What years were given to cherish.

FEAR NOT THAT, WHILE AROUND THEE.

Fear not that, while around thee
  Life's varied blessings pour,
One sigh of hers shall wound thee,
  Whose smile thou seek'st no more.
No, dead and cold for ever
  Let our past love remain;
Once gone, its spirit never
  Shall haunt thy rest again.

May the new ties that bind thee
  Far sweeter, happier prove,
Nor e'er of me remind thee,
  But by their truth and love.
Think how, asleep or waking,
  Thy image haunts me yet;
But, how this heart is breaking
  For thy own peace forget.

WHEN LOVE IS KIND.

When Love is kind,
  Cheerful and free,
Love's sure to find
  Welcome from me.

But when Love brings
  Heartache or pang,
Tears, and such things—
  Love may go hang!

If Love can sigh
  For one alone,
Well pleased am I
  To be that one,

But should I see
  Love given to rove
To two or three,
  Then—good by Love!

Love must, in short,
  Keep fond and true,
Thro' good report,
  And evil too.

Else, here I swear,
  Young Love may go.
For aught I care—
  To Jericho.

THE GARLAND I SEND THEE.

The Garland I send thee was culled from those bowers
Where thou and I wandered in long vanished hours;
Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays,
But bears some remembrance of those happy days.

The roses were gathered by that garden gate,
Where our meetings, tho' early, seemed always too late;
Where lingering full oft thro' a summer-night's moon,
Our partings, tho' late, appeared always too soon.

The rest were all culled from the banks of that glade,
Where, watching the sunset, so often we've strayed,
And mourned, as the time went, that Love had no power
To bind in his chain even one happy hour.

HOW SHALL I WOO?

If I speak to thee in friendship's name,
  Thou think'st I speak too coldly;
If I mention Love's devoted flame,
  Thou say'st I speak too boldly.
Between these two unequal fires,
  Why doom me thus to hover?
I'm a friend, if such thy heart requires,
  If more thou seek'st, a lover.
Which shall it be? How shall I woo?
  Fair one, choose between the two.

Tho' the wings of Love will brightly play,
  When first he comes to woo thee,
There's a chance that he may fly away,
  As fast as he flies to thee.
While Friendship, tho' on foot she come,
  No flights of fancy trying,
Will, therefore, oft be found at home,
  When Love abroad is flying.
Which shall it be? How shall I woo?
  Dear one, choose between the two.

If neither feeling suits thy heart
  Let's see, to please thee, whether
We may not learn some precious art
  To mix their charms together;
One feeling, still more sweet, to form
  From two so sweet already—
A friendship that like love is warm,
  A love like friendship steady.
Thus let it be, thus let me woo,
  Dearest, thus we'll join the two.

SPRING AND AUTUMN.

Every season hath its pleasures;
  Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures
  Brighten Autumn's soberer time.
So Life's year begins and closes;
  Days tho' shortening still can shine;
What tho' youth gave love and roses,
  Age still leaves us friends and wine.

Phillis, when she might have caught me,
  All the Spring looked coy and shy,
Yet herself in Autumn sought me,
  When the flowers were all gone by.
Ah, too late;—she found her lover
  Calm and free beneath his vine,
Drinking to the Spring-time over,
  In his best autumnal wine.

Thus may we, as years are flying,
  To their flight our pleasures suit,
Nor regret the blossoms dying,
  While we still may taste the fruit,
Oh, while days like this are ours,
  Where's the lip that dares repine?
Spring may take our loves and flowers,
  So Autumn leaves us friends and wine.

LOVE ALONE.

If thou wouldst have thy charms enchant our eyes,
First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies:
Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne,
Her Right Divine is given by Love alone.

What would the rose with all her pride be worth,
Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?
Maidens, unloved, like flowers in darkness thrown,
Wait but that light which comes from Love alone.

Fair as thy charms in yonder glass appear,
Trust not their bloom, they'll fade from year to year:
Wouldst thou they still should shine as first they shone,
Go, fix thy mirror in Love's eyes alone.

SACRED SONGS

TO

EDWARD TUITE DALTON, ESQ.

THE FIRST NUMBER

OF

SACRED SONGS

IS INSCRIBED,

BY HIS SINCERE AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND,

THOMAS MOORE.

Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne, May, 1816

SACRED SONGS

THOU ART, O GOD.

(Air.—Unknown.)[1]

    "The day is thine, the night is also thine: thou hast prepared the
    light and the sun.

    "Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and
    winter."
    —Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17.

Thou art, O God, the life and light
  Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
  Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
  And all things fair and bright are Thine!

When Day, with farewell beam, delays
  Among the opening clouds of Even,
And we can almost think we gaze
  Thro' golden vistas into Heaven—
Those hues, that make the Sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, LORD! are Thine.

When Night, with wings of starry gloom,
  O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
  Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes—
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, LORD! are Thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes,
  Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the Summer wreaths
  Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.

[1] I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to the beautiful old words, "I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair."

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE.

(AIR.—BEETHOVEN.)

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,[1]
  When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
  Where idle warblers roam.
But high she shoots thro' air and light,
  Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
  Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, GOD, from every care
  And stain of passion free,
Aloft, thro' Virtue's purer air,
  To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
  My Soul, as home she springs;—

Thy Sunshine on her joyful way,
  Thy Freedom in her wings!

[1] The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined.

FALLEN IS THY THRONE.

(AIR.—MARTINI.)

Fallen is thy Throne, oh Israel!
  Silence is o'er thy plains;
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
  Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
  On Etham's barren shore?
That fire from Heaven which led thee,
  Now lights thy path no more.

LORD! thou didst love Jerusalem—
  Once she was all thy own;
Her love thy fairest heritage,[1]
  Her power thy glory's throne.[2]
Till evil came, and blighted
  Thy long-loved olive-tree;[3]—
And Salem's shrines were lighted
  For other gods than Thee.

Then sunk the star of Solyma—
  Then past her glory's day,
Like heath that, in the wilderness,[4]
  The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,
  Where once the mighty trod,
And sunk those guilty towers,
  While Baal reign'd as God.

"Go"—said the LORD—"Ye Conquerors!
  "Steep in her blood your swords,
"And raze to earth her battlements,[5]
  "For they are not the LORD'S.
"Till Zion's mournful daughter
  "O'er kindred bones shall tread,
"And Hinnom's vale of slaughter[6]
  "Shall hide but half her dead!"

[1] "I have left mine heritage; I have given the clearly beloved of my soul into the hands of her enemies."—Jeremiah, xii. 7.

[2] "Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."—Jer. xiv. 21.

[3] "The LORD called by name a green olive-tree; fair, and of goodly fruit," etc.—Jer. xi. 16.

[4] "For he shall be like the heath in the desert."—Jer. xvii, 6.

[5] "Take away her battlements; for they are not the LORD'S."—Jer. v. 10.

[6] "Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the LORD, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the Valley or Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place."— Jer. vii. 32.

WHO IS THE MAID?

ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

(AIR.—BEETHOVEN.)

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks,
  Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?
  Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No—wan and sunk with midnight prayer
  Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if at times a light be there,
  Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect,
  From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly decked,
  As if themselves were things divine.
No—Heaven but faintly warms the breast
  That beats beneath a broidered veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
  To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize
  And love, because its bloom is gone;
The glory in those sainted eyes
  Is all the grace her brow puts on.
And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright,
  So touching as that form's decay,
Which, like the altar's trembling light,
  In holy lustre wastes away.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

This world is all a fleeting show,
  For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow—
  There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,
  As fading hues of even;
And love and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb—
  There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
  From wave to wave we're driven,
And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way—
  There's nothing calm but Heaven!

OH THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

    "He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds,"
    —Psalm. cxlvii. 3.

Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
  How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
  We could not fly to Thee.
The friends who in our sunshine live,
  When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
  Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
  Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
  Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
  And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears
  Is dimmed and vanished too,
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
  Did not thy Wing of Love
Come, brightly wafting thro' the gloom
  Our Peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright
  With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
  We never saw by day!

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

(AIR.—AVISON.)

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
  In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
  Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it;
  'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it,
  To water that Eden where first was its source.
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
  In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
  Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,[1]
  Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,
Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,
  And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow.
Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying
  From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown—
And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying,
  Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own.
Weep not for her—in her springtime she flew
  To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurled;
And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,
  Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

[1] This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 81, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after. The sound of her marriage-bells seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, (particularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven,") which this very interesting girl had often heard me sing during the summer.

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music dreams of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne;
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness, breaking thro'.

There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity:

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy Love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

(AlR.—AVISON.)[1]

    "And Miriam, the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in
    her band; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with
    dances."
    —Exod. xv. 20.

Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
JEHOVAH has triumphed—his people are free.
Sing—for the pride of the Tyrant is broken,
  His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave—
How vain was their boast, for the LORD hath but spoken,
  And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea;
JEHOVAH has triumphed—his people are free.

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the LORD!
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword—
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
  Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the LORD hath looked out from his pillar of glory,[2]
  And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea,
JEHOVAH has triumphed—his people are free!

[1] I have so much altered the character of this air, which is from the beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognized.

[2] "And it came to pass, that, in the morning watch the LORD looked unto the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians."—Exod. xiv. 24.

GO, LET ME WEEP.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

Go, let me weep—there's bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them inly feels
Some lingering stain of early years
  Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth and never rise;
While tears that from repentance flow,
  In bright exhalement reach the skies.
    Go, let me weep.

Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew
More idly than the summer's wind,
And, while they past, a fragrance threw,
But left no trace of sweets behind.—
The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves
Is cold, is faint to those that swell
The heart where pure repentance grieves
  O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well.
    Leave me to sigh.

COME NOT, OH LORD.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

Come not, oh LORD, in the dread robe of splendor
  Thou worest on the Mount, in the day of thine ire;
Come veiled in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender,
  Which Mercy flings over thy features of fire!

LORD, thou rememberest the night, when thy Nation[1]
  Stood fronting her Foe by the red-rolling stream;
O'er Egypt thy pillar shed dark desolation,
  While Israel basked all the night in its beam.

So, when the dread clouds of anger enfold Thee,
  From us, in thy mercy, the dark side remove;
While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee,
  Oh, turn upon us the mild light of thy Love!

[1] "And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Israel; and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night to these"—Exod. xiv. 20.

WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

Were not the sinful Mary's tears
  An offering worthy Heaven,
When, o'er the faults of former years,
  She wept—and was forgiven?

When, bringing every balmy sweet
  Her day of luxury stored,
She o'er her Saviour's hallowed feet
  The precious odors poured;—
And wiped them with that golden hair,
  Where once the diamond shone;
Tho' now those gems of grief were there
  Which shine for GOD alone!

Were not those sweets, so humbly shed—
  That hair—those weeping eyes—
And the sunk heart, that inly bled—
  Heaven's noblest sacrifice?

Thou that hast slept in error's sleep,
  Oh, would'st thou wake in Heaven,
Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,
  "Love much" and be forgiven![1]

[1] "Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much."—St. Luke, vii.47.

AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

As down in the sunless retreats of the Ocean,
  Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
  Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee,
    My God! silent to Thee—
    Pure, warm, silent, to Thee,

As still to the star of its worship, tho' clouded,
  The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea,
So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,
  The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee,
    My GOD! trembling to Thee—
    True, fond, trembling, to Thee.

BUT WHO SHALL SEE.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

But who shall see the glorious day
  When, throned on Zion's brow,
The LORD shall rend that veil away
  Which hides the nations now?[1]
When earth no more beneath the fear
  Of this rebuke shall lie;[2]
When pain shall cease, and every tear
  Be wiped from every eye.[3]

Then, Judah, thou no more shall mourn
  Beneath the heathen's chain;
Thy days of splendor shall return,
  And all be new again.[4]

The Fount of Life shall then be quaft
  In peace, by all who come;[5]
And every wind that blows shall waft
  Some long-lost exile home.

[1] "And he will destroy, in this mountain, the face of the covering cast over all people, and the vail that is spread over all nations."—Isaiah, xxv. 7.

[2] "The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth."—Isaiah, xxv. 8.

[3] "And GOD shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; neither shall there be any more pain."—Rev. xxi:4.

[4] "And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new."—Rev. xxi. 5.

[5] "And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."—Rev. xxii. 17.

ALMIGHTY GOD!

CHORUS OF PRIESTS.

(AIR.—MOZART.)

Almighty GOD! when round thy shrine
The Palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine,[1]
(Emblem of Life's eternal ray,
And Love that "fadeth not away,")
We bless the flowers, expanded all,[2]
We bless the leaves that never fall,

And trembling say,—"In Eden thus
"The Tree of Life may flower for us!"
When round thy Cherubs—smiling calm,
Without their flames—we wreathe the Palm.
Oh God! we feel the emblem true—
Thy Mercy is eternal too,
Those Cherubs, with their smiling eyes,
That crown of Palm which never dies,
Are but the types of Thee above—
Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love!

[1] "The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jerusalem was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that the Palms, which made so conspicuous a figure in that structure, represented that Life and Immortality which were brought to light by the Gospel."—"Observations on the Palm, as a sacred Emblem," by W. Tighe.

[2] "And he carved all the walls of the house round about with carved figures of cherubim, and palm-trees, and open flowers."—1 Kings, VI. 29.

OH FAIR! OH PUREST!

SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.

(AIR.—MOORE)

Oh fair! oh purest! be thou the dove
That flies alone to some sunny grove,
And lives unseen, and bathes her wing,
All vestal white, in the limpid spring.
There, if the hovering hawk be near,
That limpid spring in its mirror clear
Reflects him ere he reach his prey
And warns the timorous bird away,
     Be thou this dove;
Fairest, purest, be thou this dove,

The sacred pages of God's own book
Shall be the spring, the eternal brook,
In whose holy mirror, night and day,
Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray;—
And should the foes of virtue dare,
With gloomy wing, to seek thee there,
Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie
Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly!
    Be thou that dove;
Fairest, purest, be thou that dove.

ANGEL OF CHARITY.

(AIR.—HANDEL)

Angel of Charity, who, from above,
  Comest to dwell a pilgrim here,
Thy voice is music, thy smile is love,
  And Pity's soul is in thy tear.
When on the shrine of God were laid
  First-fruits of all most good and fair,
That ever bloomed in Eden's shade,
  Thine was the holiest offering there.

Hope and her sister, Faith, were given
  But as our guides to yonder sky;
Soon as they reach the verge of heaven,
  There, lost in perfect bliss, they die.
But, long as Love, Almighty Love,
  Shall on his throne of thrones abide,
Thou, Charity, shalt dwell above,
  Smiling for ever by His side!

BEHOLD THE SUN.

(AIR.—LORD MORNINGTON.)

Behold the Sun, how bright
 From yonder East he springs,
As if the soul of life and light
 Were breathing from his wings.

So bright the Gospel broke
 Upon the souls of men;
So fresh the dreaming world awoke
 In Truth's full radiance then.

Before yon Sun arose,
 Stars clustered thro' the sky—
But oh how dim, how pale were those,
 To His one burning eye!

So Truth lent many a ray,
  To bless the Pagan's night—
But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they
  To Thy One glorious Light!

LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY.

(AIR.—DR. BOYCE.)

Lord, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid,
  When we shall see thy Angel hovering o'er
This sinful world with hand to heaven extended,
  And hear him swear by Thee that time's no more?[1]
When Earth shall feel thy fast consuming ray—
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

When thro' the world thy awful call hath sounded—
  "Wake, all ye Dead, to judgment wake, ye Dead!"
And from the clouds, by seraph eyes surrounded,
  The Saviour shall put forth his radiant head;[2]
While Earth and Heaven before Him pass away[3]—
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

When, with a glance, the Eternal Judge shall sever
  Earth's evil spirits from the pure and bright,
And say to those, "Depart from me for ever!"
  To these, "Come, dwell with me in endless light!"[4]
When each and all in silence take their way—
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

[1] And the angel which I saw stand upon the sea and upon the earth, lifted up his hand to heaven, and swear by Him that liveth for ever and ever…that there should be time no longer."—Rev. x. 5, 6.

[2] "They shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of heaven—and all the angels with him."—Matt. xxiv. 90, and xxv. 80.

[3] "From whose face the earth and the heaven fled away."—Rev. xx. ii.

[4] "And before Him shall be gathered all nations, and He shall separate them one from another.

"Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you, etc.

"Then shall He say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, etc.

"And these shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous into life eternal."

—Matt xxv. 32, et seq.

OH, TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

Oh, teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art,
Till, filled with the one sacred image, my heart
  Shall all other passions disown;
Like some pure temple that shines apart,
  Reserved for Thy worship alone.

In joy and in sorrow, thro' praise and thro' blame,
Thus still let me, living and dying the same,
  In Thy service bloom and decay—
Like some lone altar whose votive flame
  In holiness wasteth away.

Tho' born in this desert, and doomed by my birth
To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth,
  On Thee let my spirit rely—
Like some rude dial, that, fixt on earth,
  Still looks for its light from the sky.

WEEP, CHILDREN OF ISRAEL.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

Weep, weep for him, the Man of God—[1]
  In yonder vale he sunk to rest;
But none of earth can point the sod[2]
  That flowers above his sacred breast.
    Weep, children of Israel, weep!

His doctrine fell like Heaven's rain.[3]
  His words refreshed like Heaven's dew—
Oh, ne'er shall Israel see again
  A Chief, to GOD and her so true.
    Weep, children of Israel, weep!

Remember ye his parting gaze,
  His farewell song by Jordan's tide,
When, full of glory and of days,
  He saw the promised land—and died.[4]
    Weep, children of Israel, weep!

Yet died he not as men who sink,
  Before our eyes, to soulless clay;
But, changed to spirit, like a wink
  Of summer lightning, past away.[5]
    Weep, children of Israel, weep!

[1] "And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the plains of Moab."— Deut. xxxiv, 8.

[2] "And, he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab…but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."—Ibid. ver. 6.

[3] "My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew."—Moses' Song.

[4] "I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither."—Deut. xxxiv. 4.

[5] "As he was going to embrace Eleazer and Joshua, and was still discoursing with them, a cloud stood over him on the sudden, and he disappeared in a certain valley, although he wrote in the Holy Books that he died, which was done out of fear, lest they should venture to say that, because of his extraordinary virtue, he went to GOD."—Josephus, book iv. chap. viii.

LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.

(AIR. BEETHOVEN.)

Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light—

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er
The Spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touched his sacred lyre.
In silence lay the unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Even Angels stooped to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord—
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!

COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

(AIR.—GERMAN.)

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,
  Come, at God's altar fervently kneel;
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish—
  Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,
  Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,
Here speaks the Comforter, in GOD'S name saying—
  "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us
  What charm for aching hearts he can reveal,
Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us—
  "Earth has no sorrow that GOD cannot heal."