Imágenes de página


There the dear Man my Saviour sits,

The God, how bright he shines ! And scatters infinite delights

On all the happy minds.

Seraphs with elevated strains

Circle the throne around, And move and charm the starry plains

With an immortal sound.

Jesus, the Lord, their harps employs,

Jesus, my love, they sing, Jesus, the name of both our joys,

Sounds sweet from every string.

Hark ! how beyond the narrow bounds

Of time and space they run,
And speak, in most majestic sounds,

The Godhead of the Son :

How on the Father's breast he lay,

The darling of his soul, Infinite years before the day

Or heavens began to roll.

And now they sink the lofty tune,

And gentler notes they play, And bring the eternal Godhead down,

To dwell in humble clay.

O sacred beauties of the Man !

(The God resides within) His flesh all pure, without a stain,

His soul without a sin.'

Then, how he look'd, and how he smil'd,

What wondrous things he said ! Sweet cherubs, stay, dwell here a while, And tell what Jesus did.

At his command the blind awake,

And feel the gladsome rays;
He bids the dumb attempt to speak,
They try their tongues in praise.

He shed a thousand blessings round

Where'er he turn'd his eye ;
He spoke, and at the sovereign sound

The hellish legions fly.

Thus while with unambitious strife

The' ethereal minstrels rove, Through all the labours of his life,

And wonders of his love;

In the full choir a broken string

Groans with a strange surprise ;
The rest in silence mourn their king,

That bleeds, and loves, and dies.

Seraph and saint, with drooping wings,

Cease their harmonious breath ; No blooming trees, nor bubbling springs,

While Jesus sleeps in death.

Then all at once to living strains

They summon every chord, Break the tomb, and burst his chains,

And show their rising Lord.


Around the flaming army throngs

To guard him to the skies, With loud Hosannas on their tongues,

And triumph in their eyes.

In awful state the conquering God

Ascends his shining throne, While tuneful angels sound abroad

The victories he has won.

Now let me rise, and join their song,

And be an angel too; My heart, my hand, my ear, my tongue,

Here's joyful work for you.

I would begin the music here,

And so my soul should rise :
Oh, for some heavenly notes to bear

My spirit to the skies!

There, ye that love my Saviour, sit,

There I would fain have place Amongst your thrones, or at your feet,

So I might see his face.

I am confin'd to earth no more.

But mount in haste above, To bless the God that I adore,

And sing the Man I love.



EARTH, thou great footstool of our God
Who reigns on high ; thou fruitful source
Of all our raiment, life, and food;
Our house, our parent, and our nurse ;

Mighty stage of mortal scenes,
Dress'd with strong and gay machines,

Hung with golden lamps around;
(And flowery carpets spread the ground)

Thou bulky globe, prodigious mass, That hangs unpillar'd in an empty space : While thy unwieldy weight rests on the feeble air, Bless that Almighty Word that fix'd and holds thee


Fire, thou swift herald of his face,
Whose glorious rage, at his command,

Levels a palace with the sand,
Blending the lofty spires in ruin with the base :

Ye heavenly flames, that singe the air,

Artillery of a jealous God;
Bright arrows that his sounding quivers bear

To scatter deaths abroad ;
Lightnings, adore the sovereign arm that fling's
His vengeance, and your fires, upon the heads of

kings. VOL. XXIII.


Thou vital element, the air,
Whose boundless magazines of breath

Our fainting flame of life repair, [death : And save the bubble man from the cold arms of And ye, whose vital moisture yields

Life's purple stream a fresh supply; Sweet waters, wandering through the flowery fields,

Or dropping from the sky; Confess the Power whose all-sufficient name Nor needs your aid to build, or to support our frame.

Now the rude air, with noisy force,
Beats up and swells the angry sea,
They join to make our lives a prey,

And sweep the sailor's hopes away,
Vain hopes, to reach their kindred on the shores !

Lo, the wild seas and surging waves,

Gape hideous in a thousand graves : Be still, ye floods, and know your bounds of sand, Ye storms, adore your Master's hand ; The winds are in his fist, the waves at his command.

From the eternal emptiness
His fruitful word by secret spring's
Drew the whole harmony of things
That form this noble universe :
Old Nothing knew his powerful hand,

Scarce had he spoke his full command,
Fire, air, and earth, and sea, heard the creating call,
And leap?d from empty nothing to this beauteous


And still they dance, and still obey The orders they receiv'd the great Creation-day.

« AnteriorContinuar »