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Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
And mingle with the dead,
While conscience, like a faithful friend,
And cheer our dying breath ;
And smooth the bed of death.
TO THE RISING SUN.
Sweet orb! how fair dost thou appear
Emerging from thy wat’ry bed! The shades that veil'd our hemisphere
Before thy presence all are fled !
To thee we owe the cheerful day,
And all the vegetable world; Creation soon but for thy ray,
To ancient chaos would be hurld!
Thou speak’st the wonder-working hand,
The powerful wisdom of our God, And, like Himself, thro' ev'ry land
Dost shed thine influence abroad!
I love, in thy refulgence bright,
To contemplate His works below: And rise, thro' these, to worlds of light,
Where more resplendent planets glow !
But, ah! fair orb! how faint thy gleam !
How mean the blessings thou canst give, Compared with His more glorious beam,
Beneath whose ray believers live!
'Tis Christ, the Sun of Righteousness,
Who drives the shadows from the breast!
Gives to the troubled conscience peace,
And makes the soul supremely blest!
Did thousand suns around me shine,
All would be gloom without His light! And darkest caves if He were mine,
Would seem divinely fair and bright!
Dear Saviour, o'er my bosom still
Thy sacred, healing beams display! And guide me to thy holy hill,
Where reigns an endless, blissful day!
TO THE SETTING SUN.
Fair orb of the evening, how glorious thy ray,
As I think how the glory of day-light is filed,
Still, still thou dost tell me the night of the grave To the day-time of life will too quickly succeed, When the charms of the fair and the deeds of the
brave, And the poet that sung them there's no one will
heed. But oh ! there's a morning, whose dawning so bright, Shall rouse man from his slumbers to beauty and
bloom ; A sun shall arise, and his glorious light, Shall scatter the clouds which hang over the tomb.
From the far west where Dee, the princely halls
Of Eaton leaving and it's proud domains,