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Still all my song would be,
Nearer, my God, to thee-
Nearer to thee!

Though like the wanderer,
The sun gone down,
Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone;
Yet in my dreams I'd be
Nearer, my God, to thee-
Nearer to thee!

There let the way appear,
Steps unto heaven;
All that thou send'st to me,
In mercy given :
Angels to beckon me
Nearer, my God, to thee-

Nearer to thee!

Then with my waking thoughts
Bright with thy praise,
Out of my stony griefs

Bethel I'll raise:
So by my woes to be
Nearer, my God, to thee-
Nearer to thee!

Or if on joyful wing
Cleaving the sky,

Sun, moon, and stars forgot,

Upwards I fly:

Still all my song shall be,

Nearer, my God, to thee

Nearer to thee!




THERE is a joy that hath its spring
Even in the heart's pure holiness,
Which, soaring on religions wing,

Gives feelings tongue cannot express;
Oh! thoughts devout, and wishes pure,
And hopes of a celestial birth,
And aspirations that would lure
The spirit from its clog of earth,
And tempt it still to soar and flee
Toward its parent Deity.

And some are sighing to inhale

That high delight, that vital air, Yet tread earth's dark and thorny vale, Bow'd down by all the weight of care. But, oh, the scorn, the cold disdain, Of human bosoms high in pride, Life's turmoils, and the goading chain That being may not cast aside, Seem with an iron grasp to bind Down to the dust the struggling mind.

Yet, yet be cheer'd, ye heaven-born few, Your Saviour and your God is near, And that high joy shall spring for you, Though sorrow still may drop a tear. A soothing voice, a heavenly balm,

Shall from his Spirit come to thee,
To lull thy breast, and make it calm,
And give it high felicity.

Poor stricken heart, then do not pine,
But hail the Comforter divine.

He comes, he comes, and will sustain
Through every woe the sinking form,
He will restore its bloom again,

And temper with his love the storm:
His smile is thrown on mortal clay,
Like sunshine on some ruin'd thing,
That buds beneath the genial ray,

Fondly anticipating spring. Then, stricken spirit, do not pine, But hail the Comforter divine.



SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
Bridal of earth and sky;

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die!

Sweet rose! in air whose odours wave,

And colour charms the eye;

Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die!

Sweet spring! of days and roses made,
Whose charms for beauty vie;
Thy days depart, thy roses fade,
For thou must die!

Only a sweet and holy soul

Hath tints that never fly;

While flowers decay, and seasons roll,

It cannot die.



LIVING or dying, Lord, I would be thine!
Oh, what is life?

A toil, a strife,

Were it not lighted by thy love divine.
I ask not wealth,

I crave not health

Living or dying, Lord, I would be thine!
O what is death,

When the poor breath

In parting can the soul to thee resign?
While patient love

Her trust doth prove

Living or dying, Lord, I would be thine!

Throughout my days,

Be constant praise

Uplift to thee from out this heart of mine:
So shall I be

Brought nearer thee

Living or dying, Lord, I would be thine!



OH, 'tis sweet to sigh when the sallow leaf
Sails at eve down the tranquil stream,
And to mark through a tear drop of lonely griet
The pale sun's expiring beam,

When the black bird's note, and the beetle's hymn,
Pour their soothing sounds on the twilight dim.

The wild rose fading in summer's prime,

Each thought to the breast endears-
And the oak smote bare by the hand of time,
Would soften the heart to tears,

And make it more calm, and meek, and holy,
In the midst of its own loved melancholy.

Then heigh for the spot where the gentle wind
Moans soft through each dreary dell,

Then heigh for the shade where no glance may bind
The tear in its crystal cell;

And there let me weep till the closing day,
Like a dying saint, hath pass'd calm away.

Oh, Thou that dost temper the frosty air
To the lamb when newly shorn,
And shinest in the cave of our deep despair,
A diamond to those who mourn-

My sin-darken'd bosom with light illume,
When I seek in sorrow the depths of gloom.

If a tear should rise in my aching eye
To meet the dew on the rose,

If an inward groan, or a deep-drawn sigh,
Should disturb that soft repose-

Oh, suffer that tear full of balm to be,

And that sigh let it mount wing'd by prayer to Thee. W. MARTIN.


FATHER of light and love! in all
Thy dispensations wise and just;
When barbed wrongs or sorrows fall
Upon our weak, impotent dust,

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