The lake and the fountain, The river and main, Their magic combining, 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-wreaths 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 A solace and blessing To comfort the sad. FAITH. Thy triumphs, Faith, we need not take Alone for the blest martyr's stake; In scenes obscure, no less we see That faith is a reality. An evidence of things not seen, A substance firm whereon to lean, Go search the cottager's lone room, To tell how glorious was his end; No voice to soothe, no friend to cheer: And nothing-but his Saviour left, The Word of Life is still his trust. MRS. H. MORE. WHO ARE THESE ARRAY'D IN WHITE. Who are these array'd in white, Brighter than the noon-tide sun? Foremost of the sons of light; Nearest the eternal throne? These are they that bore the cross, 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 : |