THE BLISSFUL SOCIETY ABOVE.
How bright is the prospect the saint has in view,
Let present things be as they may;
Omnipotent mercy shall bring him quite through,
And guide him to regions of day.
Alas! sin and sorrow attend him while here,
And frequently injure his peace;
But faith beholds now the sweet season as near,
That brings him a final release.
With rapture he'll mount his celestial abode,
His spirit find pleasure and rest;
With ectasy bask in the smiles of his God,
Partaking the joys of the blest.
With patriarchs, prophets, apostles, and those
Who sealed the truth with their blood;
Whose unsubdued courage astonish'd their foes,
And forced them to glorify God-
United with these, he shall hear them relate
The tale of their sufferings below;
The conflicts and toils of their militant state,
How grace had supported them through.
When this having heard, he rehearses to them
The mazes through which he has trod;
From great tribulation by grace how he came,
And reach'd the fair city of God.
Now all strike their harps, and one chorus they raise, Salvation by grace is their theme;
Thanksgiving, and honour, and blessing, and praise, And glory to God and the Lamb.
WOULD I describe a Preacher such as Paul,
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own,
Paul should himself direct me. I would trace
His master-strokes, and draw from his design.
I would express him simple, grave, sincere;
In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain,
And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste,
And natural in gesture; much impressed
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge,
As anxious mainly that the flock he feeds
May feel it too; affectionate in look,
And tender in address, as well become
A messenger of grace to guilty men.
WRAPT in the robe of faith,
Come to the place of prayer,
And seal thy deathless vows to Him
. Who makes thy life his care.
Doth he thy sunny skies
O'ercloud with tempest gloom?
Or take the idol of thy breast,
And hide it in the tomb ?
Or bid thy treasured joys
In hopeless ruin lie ?
Search not his reasons-wait his will;
The record is on high.
For should he strip thy heart
Of all it boasts on earth,
And set thee naked and alone,
As at thy day of birth,
He cannot do thee wrong,
Those gifts were his at first
Draw nearer to his changeless throne,
Bow deeper in the dust.
Calls he thy parting soul
Unbodied from the throng?
Cling closer to thy Saviour's cross,
And raise the victor's song.
SWEET is the light of SABBATH-EVE,
And soft the sunbeam lingering there;
Those sacred hours this low earth leave,
Wafted on wings of praise and prayer.
This time, how lovely and how still!
Peace shines and smiles on all below:
The plain, the stream, the wood, the hill,
All fair with evening's setting glow!
SEASON OF REST! the tranquil soul
Feels thy sweet calm, and melts in love;
And while these sacred moments roll,
Faith sees a smiling heaven above.
How short the time, how soon the sun
Sets, and dark night resumes her reign :
And soon the hours of rest are done,
Then morrow brings the world again.
Yet will our journey not be long,
Our pilgrimage will soon be trod;
And we shall join the ceaseless song,
The endless SABBATH of our God.
THE curling waves with awful roar
A little bark assail'd,
And pallid Fear's distracting pow'r
O'er all on board prevail'd;
Save one, the Captain's darling child,
Who steadfast view'd the storm,
And cheerful, with composure, smil'd
At Danger's threatening form.
"And sport'st thou thus," a Seaman cried, "While terrors overwhelm ?"
Why should I fear?" the boy replied, 'My Father's at the helm."
So when our worldly all is reft,
Our earthly helpers gone,
We still have one sure anchor left,
God helps and he alone.
He to our prayers will bend his ear,
He gives our pangs relief,
He turns to smiles each trembling tear,
To joy each tort'ring grief.
Then turn to him, 'mid sorrows mild,
When wants and woes o'erwhelm ;
Rememb'ring like the fearless child,
Our Father's at the helm.
TO A DYING INFANT
David M. Moir.
SLEEP, little baby! sleep!
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But with the quiet dead.
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