Our outward life requires them not To beautify the earth. To comfort man-to whisper hope For He who careth for the flowers WHAT IS TIME? Marsden. I ASKED an aged man, a man of cares, I asked the ancient venerable dead, Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled; I asked a dying sinner, ere the stroke Of ruthless death life's "golden bowl had broke ; I asked him, What is time?" Time," he replied, "I've lost it. Ah the treasure!" and he died. I asked the golden sun and silver spheres, I asked the seasons, in their annual round, I asked a spirit lost, but O, the shriek Of endless years, duration infinite!" Of things inanimate, my dial I I asked my Bible, and methinks it said, I asked old father Time himself at last; I asked the mighty angel, who shall stand "By heaven's great King, I swear the mystery's o'er! Time was," he cried; "but time shall be no more!" THE VALLEY OF BACA. WEEP, Pilgrim, weep! yet not for the sorrow Mourn, Pilgrim! sadly and bitterly mourn! Sigh, Christian pilgrim! for sins deeply sigh, Joy, Pilgrim, joy! 'mid thy bosom's deep swelling: There is comfort for thee, if that Rock be thy stayA sinner forgiven! a bondsman made free! Who should in the valley of Baca like thee! Sing, pilgrim, sing! let the theme of thy singing Let all the wide earth with his glory be ringing: LINES BY A DYING MOTHER. I Go to the land where the pure spirits dwell 'Midst bowers of beauty and bliss,— Then why should I take an unwilling farewell Of a false fleeting world like this? Do I wish to live over The past once again, That thus I discover At parting, such pain? Oh no! 'tis not so; Though my tears overflow, To my MASTER and MAKER I long to go. Soft voices are calling-O, haste thee away! The guests are in waiting, and we only stay Our pinions have power And earth in an hour We'll leave far behind. On high, as we fly To our home in the sky, The stars seem to whirl As we pass by. O, FATHER, forgive the frail being that grieves As she casts a last look below, On two that are tender, and one that she leaves Alone on a journey of woe! For a wife and a mother Perhaps they'll complain, Would cheer them in vain. When deep in my sleep A sad silence I keep, They'll call on their lov'd one, And watch, and weep! Thou GoD of all goodness, and mercy, and love, With my dying breath raised to thee, I trust that thou wilt to these mourners prove The Guardian thou hast been to me. Ere the soul shall have broken Its fetters of clay, O grant me a token In answer, I pray! That I with no sigh That waits on high. |