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J. G. WHITTIER.
[By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] And to her voice the solemn ocean lent, Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment.
CHE harp at Nature's advent strung
Has never ceased to play:
Has never died away.
And prayer is made, and praise is given,
By all things near and far; The ocean looketh up to heaven,
And mirrors every star.
Its waves are kneeling on the strand,
As kneels the human knee,
The priesthood of the sea!
They pour their glittering treasures forth,
Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth
Take up the song they sing.
The green earth sends her incense up
From many a mountain shrine;
her sacred wine.
The mists above the morning rills
Rise white as wings of prayer; The altar-curtains of the hills
Are sunset's purple air.
The winds with hymns of praise are loud,
Or low with sobs of pain,-
The dropping tears of rain.
With drooping head and branches crossed
The twilight forest grieves,
From all its sunlit leaves.
The blue sky is the temple's arch,
Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march
The chorus of a prayer.
So Nature keeps the reverent frame
With which her years began, And all her signs and voices shame
The prayerless heart of man.
MAJESTY OF GOD.
The Lord descended from above,
And bowed the heavens most high, And underneath his feet he cast
The darkness of the sky.
On cherubim and seraphim
Full royally he rode,
Came flying all abroad.
He sat serene upon the floods,
Their fury to restrain; And he, as sovereign Lord and King,
For evermore shall reign.
Give glory to his awful name,
And honor him alone; Give worship to his majesty,
Upon his holy throne.
“NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.”
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,Than came that voice, when all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain, Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro’ some wreathed shell; Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed to its spell! 'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken!
I'd live years of grief and pain,
By such benign, blessed sounds again.
MRS, ELLEN H. GATES.
UCH beautiful, beautiful hands,
They're neither white nor small,
That they were fair at all;
A sculptor's dreamı might be,
Most beautiful to me.
Such beautiful, beautiful hands;
Tho' heart was weary and sad,
That the children might be glad;
To childhood's distant day,
When mine were at their play.
Such beautiful, beautiful hands,
They're growing feeble now,
On hand, and heart, and brow;