Father, by the breeze of eve
Called thy harvest-work to leave-
Pray, ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee!
Traveller in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world
gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea-
Lift the heart and bend the knee !
Warrior, that from battle won,
Breathless now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain,
Weeping on his burial plain :
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see,
Lift the heart and bend the knee !
THE CHILD OF NATURE.
O blest are thou whose steps may rove
Through the green paths of vale and grove;
Or, leaving all their charms below,
Climb the wild mountain's airy brow.
And gaze afar o'er cultured plains,
And cities with their stately fanes;
And forests that beneath thee lie,
And ocean mingling with the sky.
For man can shew thee nought so fair
As nature's sacred marvels there;
And if thy pure and artless breast
Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest!
For thee the stream in beauty flows,
For thee the gale in summer blows;
And, in deep glen and wood-walk free,
Voices of joy still breathe for thee.
But happier far, if then thy soul
Can soar to Him who made the whole;
If to thine eye the simplest flower
Portray His bounty and His power.
If, in whate'er is bright or grand,
Thy mind can trace His viewless hand;
If nature's music bid thee raise
Thy song of gratitude and praise.
If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught,
Lead to His throne thy raptured thought;
If there thou lov'st His love to read,
Then, wanderer, thou art blest indeed!
THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.
WHERE is the tree the prophet threw
Into the bitter wave?
Left it no scion where it grew,
The thirsting soul to save?
Hath nature lost the hidden power
Its precious foliage shed?
Is there no distant eastern bower,
With such sweet leaves o'erspread ?
Nay, wherefore ask? since gifts are ours,
Which yet may well imbue
Earth's many troubled founts with showers Of heaven's own balmy dew.
Oh! mingled with the cup of grief,
Let faith's deep spirit be;
And every prayer shall win a leaf
From that blessed healing tree !
ANIEL WEIR was born at Greenock on the 31st of March 1796. From 1815, he conducted business as a bookseller in his native place, till his death, which took place on the 11th November 1831. Weir wrote many excellent verses, chiefly of a serious description, and was the editor of several collections of sacred poetry published in Glasgow.
COULD WE BUT LOOK BEYOND OUR SPHERE.
COULD we but look beyond our sphere,
And trace, along the azure sky,
The myriads that were inmates here,
Since Abel's spirit soared on high;
Then might we tell of those who see
Our wanderings from eternity!
But human frailty cannot gaze
On such a cloud of splendid lights
As heaven's sacred court displays,
Of blessed spirits clothed in white,
Who from the fears of death are free,
And look from an eternity.
They look, but ne'er return again
To tell the secrets of their home;
And kindliest tears for them are vain,
For never, never shall they come,
Till time's pale light begin to flee
Before a bright eternity.
Could we but gaze beyond our sphere,
Within the golden porch of heaven,
And see those spirits, which appear
Like stars upon the robe of even.
But, no; unseen to us, they see
Our wanderings from eternity.
The crimes of men which heaven saw,
And pitied with a parent's eye,
Could ne'er a kindred spirit draw
In mercy from its home on high.
They look, but all they know or see
Is silent as eternity.
At noonday hour, or midnight deep,
No bright inhabitant draws nigh;
And though a parent's offspring weep,
No whisper echoes from the sky.
Though friends may gaze, yet all they see
Is known but in eternity.
Yet we may look beyond our sphere,
On one who shines among the throng;
And we, by faith, may also hear
The triumphs of a glorious song.
And while we gaze on Him, we see
The path to this eternity.
IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.
IN the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest;
We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle,
Where sorrow's unknown, and the weary have rest.
But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoyed,
Are clouded ere morn, and soon vanish away; While the dark beating tempest on life's stormy tide, Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray.
Then where are those bowers, in some gay happy plain,
Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true;
Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gain A sunshine as bright and as promising too?
Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs,
Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest;
For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies, Where sorrow's unknown-'tis the home of the blest.
OH! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved,
Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on;
'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved,
And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone.
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest,
When the wanderer sleeps on his couch of rest.
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