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The lake and the fountain,
The river and main, Their magic combining,
Illume and controul, The care and repining
That darken the soul.
The timid spring, stealing
Through light and perfume ; The Summer's revealing
Of beauty and bloom ; The rich Autumn, glowing
With fruit treasures crown'd; The pale Winter throwing,
His snow-wreath's around All these producing,
A charm on the earth,
Wake loftier musing
And holier mirth,
There is not a sorrow
That hath not a balm
From nature to borrow,
In tempest or calm ; There is not a season,
There is not a scene, But Fancy and Reason
May gaze on serene, And own its possessing
A zest for the glad, A solace and blessing
To comfort the sad.
Thy triumphs, Faith, we need not take
No voice to soothe, no friend to cheer:
MRS. H. MORB.
WHO ARE THESE ARRAY'D IN WHITE.
Who are these array'd in white,
Brighter than the noon-tide sun?
Nearest the eternal throne?
These are they that bore the cross,
Nobly for their Master stood; Sufferers in his righteous cause ;
Followers of the Lamb of God.
Out of great distress they came :
Wash'd their robes by faith below, In the blood of yonder Lamb,
Blood that washes white as snow; Therefore are they next the throne,
Serve their Master day and night ; God resides among his own,
God doth in his saints delight.
More than conquerors at last,
Here they find their trials o'er; They have all their sufferings past,
Hunger now and thirst no more :