THE AGED PATRIARCH

Or life's past woes, the fading trace
Hath given that aged patriarch's face
Expression, holy, deep, resigned,

The calm sublimity of mind.

Years o'er his snowy head have past,
And left him of his race the last;
Alone on earth, but yet his mien
Is bright with majesty serene;

And those high hopes, whose guiding star

Shines from eternal worlds afar,

Have with that light illumed his eye,

Whose fount is immortality.

And o'er his features poured a ray

Of glory not to pass away,

He seems a being who hath known
Communion with his God alone.

On earth by nought but pity's tie,
Detained a moment from on high;
One to sublimer worlds allied,
One from all passions purified.

E'en now half-mingled with the sky,
And all prepared, oh! not to die,
But, like the prophet, to aspire

To heaven's triumphal car of fire.

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

FEAR was within the tossing bark,

When stormy winds grew loud; And waves came rolling high and dark, And the tall mast was bowed.

And men stood breathless in their dread,

And baffled in their skill;

But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea, "Be still!"

And the wind ceased-it ceased-that word
Passed through the gloomy sky;
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And sank beneath his eye.

And slumber settled on the deep,
And silence on the blast;
As when the righteous fall asleep,

When death's fierce throes are past.

Thou, that didst rule the angry hour,
And tame the tempest's mood,
Oh! send thy Spirit forth in power,
O'er our dark souls to brood.

Thou, that didst bow the billow's pride,
Thy mandates to fulfil,-

So speak to passion's raging tide,

Speak and say,-"Peace, be still!"

A DOMESTIC SCENE.

'TWAS early day-and sun-light streamed Soft through a quiet room

That hushed, but not forsaken, seemed

Still, but with nought but gloom :

For there, secure in happy age,
Whose hope is from above,

A father communed with the page
Of heaven's recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright

On his grey holy hair,

And touched the book with tenderest light,
As if its shrine were there;
But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone

With something lovelier far

A radiance all the spirits own,

Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e'en then had met
His calm benignant eye;

Some ancient promise breathing yet
Of immortality;

Some heart's deep language, where the glow
Of quenchless faith survives;

For every feature said, "I know
That my Redeemer lives."

And silent stood his children by,
Hushing their very breath

Before the solemn sanctity

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death;
Silent-yet did not each young breast,
With love and reverence melt?

Oh! blest be those fair girls-and blest
That home where God is felt.

THE BETTER LAND.

"I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou callest its children a happy band;
Mother! oh where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,

And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle-boughs?" "Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands on glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"

"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand, Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"

"Not there, not there, my child!

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
Far beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb-

It is there, it is there, my child!'

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

CHILD, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thy earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve,
Called thy harvest-work to leave;
Pray!-ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

Traveller, in the stranger's land, Far from thine own household band;

Mourner, haunted by the tone

Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea,

Lift the heart and bend the knee.

Warrior, that from battle won, Breathest now at set of sun; Woman, o'er the lowly slain, Weeping on his burial plain! Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, Kindred by one holy tie;

Heaven's first star alike ye see

Lift the heart and bend the knee.