By the sacred griefs that wept
O'er the grave where Lazarus slept ;
By the boding tears that flow'd
Over Salem's lov'd abode;
By the anguish'd sigh that told
Treachery lurked within Thy fold,
From Thy seat above the sky,
Hear our solemn Litany.
By Thine hour of dire despair,
By Thine agony of pray'r,
By the cross, the nail, the thorn,
Piercing spear, and torturing scorn,
By the gloom that veil'd the skies
O'er the dreadful sacrifice,
Listen to our humble cry,
Hear our solemn Litany.
By the deep expiring groan,
By the sad sepulchral stone,
By the vault whose dark abode
Held in vain the rising God:
O from earth to heav'n restor'd,
Mighty re-ascended Lord,
Listen, listen to the cry
Of our solemn Litany!
COMFORT UNDER AFFLICTION.
WHEN gathering clouds around I view,
And days are dark, and friends are few,
On Him I lean, who not in vain,
Experienc'd every human pain:
He sees my wants, allays my fears,
And counts and treasures up my tears.
If aught should tempt my soul to stray
From heavenly wisdom's narrow way;
To fly the good I would pursue,
Or do the sin I would not do:
Still He who felt temptation's power,
Shall guard me in that dangerous hour.
If wounded love my bosom swell,
Deceiv'd by those I prized too well,
He shall His pitying aid bestow,
Who felt on earth severer woe;
At once betray'd, denied, or fled,
By those who shared His daily bread.
If vexing thoughts within me rise,
And, sore dismay'd, my spirit dies;
Still He who once vouchsafed to bear
The sickening anguish of despair,
Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry,
The throbbing heart, the streaming eye.
When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend,
Which covers what was once a friend,
And from his voice, his hand, his smile,
Divides me-for a little while,
Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed,
For Thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead.
And O when I have safely past
Through every conflict-but the last,
Still, still, unchanging, watch beside
My painful bed-for Thou hast died;
Then point to realms of cloudless day,
And wipe the latest tear away.
GLORY AND GOODNESS OF GOD.
O WORSHIP the King, all glorious above!
O gratefully sing His power and His love!
Our Shield and Defender-the Ancient of days,
Pavilion'd in splendour, and girded with praise.
O tell of His might, O sing of His grace, Whose robe is the light, whose canopy space; His chariots of wrath deep thunder-clouds form, And dark is His path on the wings of the storm.
This earth, with its store of wonders untold,
Almighty! Thy power hath founded of old;
Hath stablish'd it fast by a changeless decree,
And round it hath cast, like a mantle, the sea.
Thy bountiful care, what tongue can recite?
It breathes in the air, it shines in the light;
It streams from the hills, it descends to the plain,
And sweetly distils in the dew and the rain.
Frail children of dust, and feeble as frail,
In Thee do we trust, nor find Thee to fail;
Thy mercies how tender, how firm to the end,
Our Maker, Defender, Redeemer, and Friend!
O measureless Might! ineffable Love!
While angels delight to hymn Thee above,
The humbler creation, tho' feeble their lays,
With true adoration shall lisp to Thy praise.
O SAVIOUR, whose mercy, severe in its kindness,
Has chasten'd my wand'rings, and guided my way;
Ador'd be the pow'r which illumin'd my blindness,
And wean'd me from phantoms that smil'd to betray.
Enchanted with all that was dazzling and fair,
I follow'd the rainbow, I caught at the toy; And still, in displeasure, Thy goodness was there, Disappointing the hope, and defeating the joy.
The blossom blush'd bright, but a worm was below;
The moonlight shone fair, there was blight in the beam;
Sweet whispered the breeze, but it whispered of woe,
And bitterness flow'd in the soft-flowing stream.
So, cur'd of my folly, yet cur'd but in part,
I turned to the refuge Thy pity display'd;
And still did this eager and credulous heart,
Weave visions of promise that bloom'd but to fade.
I thought that the course of the pilgrim to heaven
Would be bright as the summer, and glad as the morn;
Thou show'dst me the path, it was dark and uneven;
All rugged with rock, and all tangled with thorn.
I dream'd of celestial rewards and renown;
I grasp'd at the triumph which blesses the brave;
I asked for the palm-branch, the robe, and the crown
I ask'd, and Thou show'dst me a cross and a grave.
Subdu'd and instructed, at length to Thy will,
My hopes and my longings I fain would resign;
Oh give me the heart that can wait and be still,
Nor know of a wish or a pleasure but Thine!
There are mansions exempted from sin and from woe,
But they stand in a region by mortals untrod;
There are rivers of joy, but they roll not below;
There is rest-but it dwells in the presence of God.
MARY ANN BROWNE was born at Maidenhead Thicket, Berks, on the 24th September, 1812. Devoted to versifying from childhood, she appeared as an authoress in her fifteenth year, by the publication of "Mont Blanc, and other Poems," dedicated, by permission, to the Princess Augusta. When a year older, she produced another poetical volume, entitled "Ada." Her subsequent poetical works were, "Repentance, and other Poems," "The Coronal," "The Birth-day Gift," "Ignatia," "Sacred Poetry," and "Sketches from the Antique, and other Poems." In 1842, she married Mr. James Gray, a nephew of the Ettrick Shepherd. On the first of January, 1845, she gave birth to her only child. She died on the 28th of the same month. Mrs. Gray was a person of eminent piety and amiable manners. She contributed to The Dublin University Magazine, and occasionally furnished verses to Chambers' Journal, and The Literary Gazette.
"THY WILL BE DONE.”
Ir is a short and simple prayer,
But 'tis the Christian's stay,
Through every varied scene of care,
Until his dying day.
As through the wilderness of life
Calmly he wanders on,
His prayer in every time of strife
Is still, "Thy will be done."
When in his happy infant years
He treads 'midst thornless flowers;
When pass away his smiles and tears,
Like April suns and showers:
Then, kneeling by his parents' hearth,
Play-tired at set of sun;
What is the prayer his heart pours forth? "Father, Thy will be done."
When the bright summer sky of time
Cloudless is o'er him spread;
When love's bright wreath is in its prime,
With not one blossom dead:
Whilst o'er his hopes and prospects fair
No mist of woe hath gone;
Still he repeats his first-taught prayer-
"Father, Thy will be done."
But when his sun no longer beams,
And love's sweet flowers decay;
When all hope's rainbow-coloured dreams
Are sadly swept away;
As flowers bent beneath the storm
Still fragrantly breathe on ;
So when dark clouds life's heaven deform, He prays, "Thy will be done!"
And when the winter of his age
Sheds o'er his locks its snows;
When he can feel his pilgrimage
Fast drawing to a close:
Then, as he finds his strength decline,
This is his prayer alone :
"To Thee my spirit I resign,-
Father, Thy will be done!"
LOOKING UNTO JESUS.
SINNER, whither wilt thou go,
Burden'd with thy hopeless woe?
Know'st thou who can give relief?
Who alone can heal thy grief?
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