All wither'd was the vernal grass,The sea laid bare its bed: The mountains skipped to and fro, Threat'ning the vales to overthrow,The troubled world did groan; The sun withdrew his glittering rays, Quenched beneath the brighter blaze That round the Angel shone.
Upon a mountain's rugged height He fix'd his left foot sure,And on the ocean's waves so bright Planted his right secure: With arms uplifted to the sky, He swore, by Him who reigns on high, Girded with might and power; And who created earth and sea In all their vast immensity,That-Time should be no more!
Earth quaked at the fatal sound, And to its centre shook,- It reach'd creation's utmost bound; Then with majestic look,
He stretch'd his arm up to the sun, And thence pull'd forth that mighty one, And hurl'd him to the sea: The moon grew pale with wild affright, The stars withdrew their glimmering light,- For light no more could be!
The mountains melted to their base, The heavens fled away; The sea could find itself no place, Dere it might longer stay:
The light still dim and dimmer grew, Till swallow'd up in night; And then the Angel, to my view,
Shone like a meteor bright; The tempest ceased its raging breath,- All nature yielded up to death,
The earth, the sky, the sea:
A dark cloud rose upon my sight, And shrouded all in tenfold night,'Twas blank Eternity!
SUN-LIGHT upon Judea's hills!
And on the waves of GalileeOn Jordan's stream and on the rills That gather to the sleeping sea! Most freshly from the greenwood springs The light breeze on its scented wingsAnd gaily quiver in the sun
The tall, green plumes of Lebanon!
A few more hours-a change hath come Dark as a brooding thunder-cloud!
The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb- And proud knees unto earth are bowed A change is on the hill of death, The helmed watchers pant for breath, And turn with wild and maniac eyes From the dark scene of sacrifice!
That sacrifice!-the death of Him
The High and ever Holy One! Well may the conscious heaven grow dim And blacken the beholding sun! The wonted light hath fled away, Night settles on the middle day; And earthquake from his cavern'd bed Is waking with a thrill of dread.
The dead are moving underneath! Their prison-door is rent away! And ghastly with the seal of death, They wander in the eye of day! The temple of the cherubim- The house of God is cold and dim,— A curse is on its trembling walls- Its mystic veil asunder falls.
Well may the mighty holds of earth
Be shaken, and her mountains nod! Well may the sheeted dead come forth To gaze upon a suffering God! Well may the temple shrine grow dim, And shadows veil the cherubim, When He, the chosen one of Heaven, A sacrifice for guilt is given!
And shall the sinful heart alone,
Behold unmoved the atoning hour,
When nature trembles on her throne, And death resigns his iron power?
all the heart, whose sinfulness Gare keenness to His sore distress, And, added to His tears of blood, Reuse its trembling gratitude!
THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS.
Wary evening listen'd to the dripping car, Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar
By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,
Redects that stately structure on his side, We whose walls, as their long labours close, The wanderers of the ocean find repose,
We are in social ease the hours away, The passing visit of a summer's day.
Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone, Ingerd on the river's marge alone, Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray, And watch'd the last bright sunshine steal away. As thus I mused amidst the various train Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main, Two sailors-well I mark'd them (as the beam Of parting day yet linger'd on the stream, And the sun sunk behind the shady reach Hasten'd with tottering footsteps to the beach.
The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb- And proud knees unto earth are bowed A change is on the hill of death, The helmed watchers pant for breath, And turn with wild and maniac eyes From the dark scene of sacrifice! That sacrifice!-the death of Him- The High and ever Holy One! Well may the conscious heaven grow And blacken the beholding sun! The wonted light hath fled away, Night settles on the middle day; And earthquake from his cavern'd bed Is waking with a thrill of dread. The dead are moving underneath! Their prison-door is rent away! And ghastly with the seal of death, They wander in the eye of day! The temple of the cherubim- The house of God is cold and dim,- A curse is on its trembling walls- Its mystic veil asunder falls.
Well may the mighty holds of earth Be shaken, and her mountains nod! Well may the sheeted dead come forth To gaze upon a suffering God! Well may the temple shrine grow dim, And shadows veil the cherubim, When He, the chosen one of Heaven, A sacrifice for guilt is given!
And shall the sinful heart alone, Behold unmoved the atoning hour,
WHEN evening listen'd to the dripping oar, Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar
By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,
Reflects that stately structure on his side, Within whose walls, as their long labours close, The wanderers of the ocean find repose, We wore in social ease the hours away, The passing visit of a summer's day.
Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone, I linger'd on the river's marge alone, Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray, And watch'd the last bright sunshine steal away. As thus I mused amidst the various train Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main, Two sailors-well I mark'd them (as the beam Of parting day yet linger'd on the stream, And the sun sunk behind the shady reach) Hasten'd with tottering footsteps to the beach.
buds of spring-those beautiful harbingers Of sy skies and cloudless times-enjoy L's newness, and earth's garniture spread out; And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and, with Aber gladness, the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pop and pageant fill the splendid scene.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Mara, on the mountain, like a summer bird, Les up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle wind-a sweet and passionate wooer- Kines the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves; the purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds- A winter bird,-comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud, From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings; And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight; Total eclipse had veil'd the other's sight For ever! As I drew more anxious near, I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear; But neither said a word! He who was blind Stood as to feel the comfortable wind That gently lifted his gray hair: his face Seem'd then of a faint smile to wear the trace. The other fix'd his gaze upon the light Parting; and when the sun had vanish'd quite, Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless, Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness, Came to his aged eyes, and touch'd his cheek! And then, as meek and silent as before, Back hand-in-hand they went, and left the shors
As they departed through the unheeding crowd A caged bird sung from the casement loud; And then I heard alone that blind man say, "The music of the bird is sweet to-day!" I said, "O Heavenly Father! none may know The cause these have for silence or for woe!" Here they appear heart-stricken or resign'd, Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind. There is a world, a pure, unclouded clime, Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time! Nor loss of friends! Perhaps, when yonder bell Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell, Ere yet the glimmering landscape sunk to nigh They thought upon that world of distant light! And when the blind man, lifting light his hair, Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer praye Then sigh'd, as the blithe bird sung o'er his bad 1 No morn will shine on me till I am dead!"
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