THE NATIVITY. AN ODE. O FOR a sound more soft and clear, When touch'd with God's ethereal fire, The holy Bard, in lofty lays, Broke forth in prophecy and praise, And Thou, who tun'd the varying strings A theme so sacred, so sublime, That bade all heav'n with hallelujahs ring; Let holy zeal each note prolong, And breathe thy spirit o'er the song Of God's anointed Son, and heav'n's eternal King! O Salem! what a day is thine, See hope her hallow'd temple rears! Lift up your eyes, and hail the morn, To you a holy babe is born, The child of promis'd years; Music floats on ether wings, The woods rejoice, the desart sings! Bow your heads, ye mountains high, Assembled nations prostrate fall— Hark! the hills exulting cry— 66 He brings salvation down to all!" Softly sweet the echo rings"Glory to the King of Kings! And peace to men be giv'n.-" Praise him ye planets as ye roll, Ye stars that gild yon shining Pole, And all ye Hosts of heav'n! Lo, the sound hath reach'd the skies! Hark! what strains seraphic rise Among the heav'nly choirsList'ning saints their voices raise, Swell the chorus of his praise, And strike their golden Lyres! To thee redemption's work is dear, Thy love shall wipe the sinner's tear, U Thy hand his cruel bondage break :— The dumb shall lift their song to thee, The lame shall walk, the blind shall see; Thy voice shall bid the dead awake! To those of meek and lowly heart, Where Zion's crystal waters glide. No more shall war, with iron reign, But heav'nly Peace, on dove-like wing, While heathen lands, with cheerful voice, A Saviour's glory shall proclaim, Afric, behold thy King-rejoice! rejoice! In that dread hour of mortal doom, * "His war-denouncing trumpet took."-Collins. And earth, from ev'ry yawning tomb Thy saints, on wings of angels borne, Prompt at the gracious call, the Star of Mercy rose. ODE TO MELANCHOLY. IF aught can raise the drooping heart How glorious 'tis, at twilight hour, The mind expanding, bears her wings, And mingles with the skies. Then let me seek the solemn scene, When all is silent and serene Beneath the starry pole ; When pleasure's fev'rish dreams are o'er, And busy cares disturb no more The contemplative soul. Or slowly pace, with musing tread, Where senseless marbles weep; |