CXLIV. RISE, my soul, and stretch thy wings, Towards heaven thy native place. Rivers to the ocean run, Nor stay in all their course : Cease, ye pilgrims, cease to mourn, And earth exchang'd for heaven. CXLV. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death. Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad glidings round the joyous hearth, The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine! Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death. We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art where friend meets friend Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death. CXLVI. KNELL of departed years, Thy voice is sweet to me: It wakes no sad foreboding fears, I hear the sound Diffusing through the air a holy calm around. Thou art the voice of love; To chide each doubt away; And as thy murmur faintly dies, That love divine Will o'er my future path in cloudless mercy shine. Thou art the voice of hope: A song of blessings yet to come, By nature griev'd, Still am I nearer rest than when I first believed. Thou art the voice of life: A sound which seems to say, Oh prisoner in this gloomy vale, That cannot pass away: Here grief and pain Thy steps detain, There, in the image of the Lord, shalt thou with Jesus reign. THE END. |