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ON MY FATHER, REV. T. ALLEN.
I give thee thanks and praise, Great God above!
That though one half a hundred years be fled
He lives within my heart. His faith, his love, His zeal for right, the thoughts that him did move
The foes of truth ť encounter without dread, All foes of Him who on the cross once bled,
Such things for him a web of honor wove. My years are more than his: 0, could I
say, My virtues are but equal; and that, when
I reach the closing hour of my life's day, My God would give me his strong faith ; for then,
As told he could not live, he made reply“I'm going to live forever in the sky!”
Cloth'd with a cloud an angel-form I see;
A beaming rainbow decks his glorious brow; Like dazzling noon-tide sun his features glow;
One blazing foot is planted in the sea,
He cried aloud, as lion, roaring slow;
His red right arm he lifted high and free;
He sware by Him, that made the sea and earth,
And scattered far abroad the worlds of light,Whose years proceed in never-ending march,
That Time, which ow'd to his decree its birth, Should cease fore'er to wing its rapid flight.
WRITTEN IN A THUNDER-STORM.
In that loud voice, that shakes the earth and skies,
The ancient pagan heard Jove's angry tone, Speaking to mortals from the clouds, his throne;
In that keen light, which rapid bursts and flies, And darts to earth, and dazzles mortal eyes,
The pagan saw Jove's vengeful jav'lin thrown, To check man's pride, and cast presumption down,
And vindicate the god as strong and wise. But now, since Franklin drew a spark from cloud,
And prov'd it merely electricity,
Though, God! thou speak in thunders e'er so loud, Our empty science makes us deaf to Thee;
And though thy lightnings glare, yet we are proud, And blind to Thy most glorious majesty!
The pagan pays his worship to a block,
Or lifts his homage to the glorious sun,
Such folly well our thinking sense may shock. But what if Christian nam'd his God should mock,
Or wrapp'd in web, by atheist's fingers spun,
Not deem'd His work, who guides the starry flock ? Is there not here a guilt of deeper dye,
A mind less cheer'd by rays of truth divine,
A heart more cold, enchain'd by Greenland frost ? Ah! can the wretch e'er dwell in purest sky,
Where God's perfections all in glory shine ?
ON THE DEATH OF MY DAUGHTER.
Poor man, who name of Father dost not know,
Nor e'er hast felt that bond of sweetest might, Which binds thee to thy child; on whose glad sight
That fairest image on the earth below,In beauty like heav'n's various-tinted bow,
Her Mother's picture, lovely daughter bright Ne'er shone ;—thou hast not seen joy's earthly
height! All this I've seen, and lost to my huge woe! And yet I do not need thy pity, friend;
Forthough the flow'r of seventeen summers' bloom
Was smitten, still it blossoms without end
A ransom'd sinner did my Daughter die,
THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR.
This day another year of life is fled,
With ev'ry change; its gloom and beaming light, Its woes and joys all vanish'd from the sight:
Yet deeds of good and evil are not dead. If ill, their record we shall see with dread
O’erwhelming to our sight and wild affright, Unless through Christ our conscience is set right
And his atoning blood our peace hath bred. If good our deeds, and Christ through faith our friend,
Then gladly may we hail life's final day,–
The heirs of glory we when time shall end.In the new year be our's the bliss to say,
Each truly,-“ Lord, in thee my hope is strong Of thee, the Lamb, to sing heav'n's ceaseless song!"
TRANSFIGURATION OF CHRIST.
Nature's idolater the mount ascends
To gaze around : Jesus went up to pray;
And brightness, that all earthly light transcends. What company is this, that Him attends ?
Celestial forms appear in pure array,
His certain death, which shame and anguish blends. But soon the light recedes; there comes a cloud,
Dark and terrific in th' apostles' eyes,
And spreads its curtains round, beneath, above; And from that gloom a voice is heard most loud
“ This is my Son, who came from upper skies, My Son beloved, hear ye Him and love !"
SLEEPERS IN THE GRAVE-YARD.
In this fair grove of thick-branch'd evergreen
How many sleepers wide are scatter'd round,
On ev'ry side their marble tablets seen?
When the archangel's trumpet loud shall sound : Not one of all will then be heedless found
But all will spring to life; a mingled scene Of grief, despair, and sweet and high delight.
I speak not of the bad ; but sure a throng
Of loving friends will meet the judge's sight,
Shall we be with these sleepers as they rise ?
SONG OF THE REDEEMED.
Bebold, before the Lamb, before God's throne
In robes of white a countless multitude,
From ev'ry tribe and tongue by goodness won ; Their voices high are join'd, as if but one ;
All cry aloud-Salvation to our God,
For all our deepest sins did once atone !
While with enraptur'd hearts they God adore,
And to the Lamb of sacrifice they bend— “ Let honor, glory, blessing, thanks be paid,
All might, and wisdom, majesty, and power
By rippling brook, in air, and field, and wood,
Nature ! thou dost thy Maker mighty wrong. Hast thou no speech to check the erring song ? Glows not thy beauteous cheek with mantling
blood Thyself to take His praise, “ First Fair, FIRST
A voice is swelling on the mountain breeze,