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Never on prayerless bed

To lay thine unblest head.

Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care,
That calls for holy prayer?

Has thy day been so bright
That in its flight

There is no trace of sorrow?
And thou art sure to-morrow

Will be like this, and more
Abundant? Dost thou yet lay up thy store
And still make plans for more?
Thou fool! this very night
Thy soul may wing its flight.

Hast thou no being than myself more dear,

That ploughs the ocean deep,
And when storms sweep

The wintry, lowering sky,
For whom thou wak'st and weepest?
Oh, when thy pangs are deepest,
Seek then the covenant ark of prayer;
For He that slumbereth not is there

His ear is open to thy cry.

Oh, then, on prayerless bed
Lay not thy thoughtless head.

Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber,

Till in communion blest

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Earth has a joy unknown in heaven, The new-born peace of sin forgiven! Tears of such pure and deep delight, Ye angels! never dimmed your sight.

Ye saw of old on chaos rise

The beauteous pillars of the skies;
Ye know where morn exulting springs,
And evening folds her drooping wings.

Bright heralds of the Eternal Will,
Abroad his errands ye fulfil;
Or, throned in floods of beamy day,
Symphonious in his presence play.
Loud is the song, - the heavenly plain
Is shaken with the choral strain;
And dying echoes, floating far,
Draw music from each chiming star.

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"FATHER of lakes!" thy waters bend
Beyond the eagle's utmost view,
When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send
Back to the sky its world of blue.

Boundless and deep, the forests weave
Their twilight shade thy borders o'er,
And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave
Their rugged forms along thy shore.

Pale silence, mid thy hollow caves,
With listening ear, in sadness broods;
Or startled echo, o'er thy waves,
Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods.

Nor can the light canoes, that glide
Across thy breast like things of air,
Chase from thy lone and level tide
The spell of stillness deepening there.

Yet round this waste of wood and wave,
Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives,
That, breathing o'er each rock and cave,
To all a wild, strange aspect gives.

The thunder-riven oak, that flings
Its grisly arms athwart the sky,
A sudden, startling image brings

To the lone traveller's kindled eye.

The gnarled and braided boughs, that show Their dim forms in the forest shade, Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw Fantastic horrors through the glade.

The very echoes round this shore
Have caught a strange and gibbering

For they have told the war-whoop o'er,
Till the wild chorus is their own.

Wave of the wilderness, adieu !
Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds, ye woods!
Roll on, thou element of blue,

And fill these awful solitudes!

Thou hast no tale to tell of man;
God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves,
Whisper of him whose mighty plan
Deems as a bubble all your waves!



THERE is an hour of peaceful rest

To mourning wanderers given; There is a joy for souls distrest, A balm for every wounded breast, 'Tis found alone in heaven.

There is a soft, a downy bed,

Far from these shades of even
A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest the aching head,
And find repose, in heaven.

There is a home for weary souls

By sin and sorrow driven;

When tossed on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,
And all is drear but heaven.

There faith lifts up her cheerful eye,

To brighter prospects given; And views the tempest passing by, The evening shadows quickly fly,

And all serene in heaven.

There fragrant flowers immortal bloom,
And joys supreme are given;
There rays divine disperse the gloom:
Beyond the confines of the tomb
Appears the dawn of heaven.



ONE elf, I trow, is diving now
For the small pearl; and one,
The honey-bee for his bag he
Goes chasing in the sun;

And one, the knave, has pilfered from
The nautilus his boat,

And takes his idle pastime where

The water-lilies float.

And some the mote, for the gold of his coat,
By the light of the will-o'-wisp follow;
And others, they trip where the alders dip
Their leaves in the watery hollow;
And one is with the firefly's lamp
Lighting his love to bed:
Sprites, away! elf and fay,

And see them hither sped.

Haste! hither whip them with this end
Of spider's web — anon

The ghost will have fled to his grave-bed,
And the bat winked in the sun.
Haste! for the ship, till the moon dip
Her horn, I did but borrow;
And crowing cocks are fairy clocks,
That mind us of to-morrow.

The summer moon will soon go down,
And the day-star dim her horn,
O blow, then, blow, till not a wave
Leap from the deep unshorn!
Blow, sweep their white tops into mist,
As merrily we roam,

Till the wide sea one bright sheet be,
One sheet of fire and foam.

Blow, till the sea a bubble be,


And toss it to the sky,-
Till the sands we tread of the ocean-bed,
As the summer fountains dry.
The upper shelves are ours, my elves,
Are ours, and soon the nether
With sea-flowers we shall sprinkled see,
And pearls like dew-drops gather.

The summer moon will soon go down,
And then our course is up;
Our frigate then the cockle-shell,
Our boat the bean-flower cup.
Sprites away! elf and fay,

From thicket, lake, and hollow;

The blind bat, look! flits to his nook,
And we must quickly follow.

Ha! here they come, skimming the foam,
A gallant crew. But list!

I hear the crow of the cock - O blow,
Till the sea-foam drift like mist.
Fairies, haste! flood and blast
Quickly bring, and stay

The moon's horn-look! to his nook
The blind bat flits - away!



O LEND to me, sweet nightingale,
Your music by the fountain,
And lend to me your cadences,
O river of the mountain!
That I may sing my gay brunette,
A diamond spark in coral set,
Gem for a prince's coronet -

The daughter of Mendoza.

How brilliant is the morning star,
The evening star how tender,
The light of both is in her eyes,

Their softness and their splendor.
But for the lash that shades their light
They were too dazzling for the sight,
And when she shuts them, all is night-
The daughter of Mendoza.

O ever bright and beauteous one,
Bewildering and beguiling,
The lute is in thy silvery tones,

The rainbow in thy smiling;
And thine is, too, o'er hill and dell,
The bounding of the young gazelle,
The arrow's flight and ocean's swell -
Sweet daughter of Mendoza !

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