The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise;
The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled;
And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice,
Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies.
ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.
THIS useful and elegant author was the only daughter of Dr. John Aikin, a dissenting minister. Early in life she married Rochemont Barbauld, who opened a seminary at Palgrave, at which place he had obtained the charge of a congregation. In his scholastic employment he was assisted by Mrs. Barbauld, who devoted all her talents to the instruction of the pupils; and it was for them that she composed her well-known Early Lessons, and Hymns in Prose. Of her devotional poems too much cannot be said in commendation; they entitle her to the esteem of every real Christian. She died in 1825.
GOD of my life, and Author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise,
And trembling take upon a mortal tongue
That hallowed name, to harps of seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more
Than hide their faces, tremble and adore.
Worms, angels, men in every different sphere,
Are equal all, for all are nothing here.
All nature faints beneath the mighty name
Which nature's works through all her parts proclaim;
I feel that name my inmost thoughts control,
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul;
As by a charm the waves of grief subside,
Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide:
At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace,
Till every worldly thought within me dies,
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes;
Till all my sense is lost in infinite,
And one vast object fills my aching sight.
But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke;
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke;
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain,
And mingles with the dross of earth again.
But He our gracious Master, kind as just,
Knowing our frame remembers man is dust.
His spirit ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined;
Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim,
And fans the smoking flax into a flame.
His ears are open to the softest cry,
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye;
He reads the language of a silent tear,
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere.
Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give,
Accept the vow and bid the suppliant live:
From each terrestrial bondage set me free!
Still every wish that centres not in Thee:
Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease,
And point my path to everlasting peace.
If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads
By living waters and through flowery meads,
Where all is smiling, tranquil, and serene,
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene,
Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare,
And whisper to my sliding heart,-Beware!
With caution let me hear the syren's voice,
And doubtful with a trembling heart rejoice.
If friendless in a vale of tears I stray,
Where briers wound and thorns perplex my wayStill let my steady soul thy goodness see,
And with strong confidence lay hold on Thee;
With equal eye my various lot receive,
Resigned to die, or resolute to live;
Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod,
While God is seen in all, and all in God.
I read his awful name emblazoned high,
With golden letters on the illumined sky;
Nor less the mystic characters I see
Wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree:
In every leaf that trembles to the breeze
I hear the voice of God among the trees;
With Thee in shady solitudes I walk;
With Thee in busy crowded cities talk;
In every creature own thy forming power,
In each event thy providence adore.
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control.
Thus shall I rest unmoved by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms;
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in Thee.
Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate,
I stand and stretch my view to either state;
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having lived to Thee, in Thee to die.
JEHOVAH reigns: let every nation hear,
And at his footstool bow with holy fear;
Let heaven's high arches echo with his name,
And the wide peopled earth his praise proclaim.
Then send it down to hell's deep glooms, resounding
Through all her caves in dreadful murmurs sounding.
He rules with wide and absolute command
O'er the broad ocean and the stedfast land:
Jehovah reigns, unbounded and alone,
And all creation hangs beneath his throne:
He reigns alone; let no inferior nature
Usurp or share the throne of the Creator.
He saw the struggling beams of infant light
Shoot through the massy gloom of ancient night;
His spirit hushed the elemental strife,
And brooded o'er the kindling seeds of life:
Seasons and months began the long procession,
And measured o'er the year in bright succession.
The joyful sun sprung up th' ethereal way,
Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay;
And the pale moon diffused her shadowy light,
Superior o'er the dusky brow of night:
Ten thousand glittering lamps the skies adorning,
Numerous as dew drops from the womb of morning.
Earth's blooming face with rising flowers He dressed,
And spread a verdant mantle o'er her breast;
Then from the hollow of his hand He pours
The circling waters round her winding shores,
The new-born world in their cool arms embracing,
And with soft murmurs still her banks caressing.
At length she rose complete in finished pride,
All fair and spotless like a virgin bride;
Fresh with untarnished lustre as she stood,
Her Maker blessed his work and called it good
The morning stars, with joyful acclamation,
Exulting sang, and hailed the new creation.
Yet this fair world, the creature of a day,
Though built by God's right hand, must pass away,
And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things,
The fate of empires and the pride of kings.
Eternal night shall veil their proudest story,
And drop the curtain o'er all human glory.
The sun himself with weary clouds oppressed,
Shall in his silent, dark pavilion rest;
His golden urn shall broke and useless lie,
Amidst the common ruins of the sky;
The stars rush headlong in their wild commotion,
And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean.
But fixed, O God! for ever stands thy throne;
Jehovah reigns, a universe alone;
The eternal fire that feeds each vital flame,
Collected or diffused is still the same;
He dwells within his own unfathomed essence,
And fills all space with his unbounded presence.
But, oh! our highest notes the theme debase,
And silence is our least injurious praise.
Cease, cease your songs, the daring flight control,
Revere Him in the stillness of the soul;
With silent duty meekly bend before Him,
And deep within your inmost hearts adore Him.
"Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat, the flocks shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls; yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation." Habakkuk iii. 17, 18.
PRAISE to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ;
For the blessing of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use.
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