LXII.

The Lord our God is full of might,

The winds obey his will ;
He speaks and in his heavenly height,

The rolling sun stands still.
Rebel ye waves, and o'er the land

With threatening aspect roar; The Lord uplifts his awful hand

And chains you to the shore.

Howl winds of night, your force combine ;

Without his high behest,
Ye shall not in the mountain-pine

Disturb the sparrow's nest.
His voice sublime is heard afar,

In distant peals it dies;
He yokes the whirlwinds to his car,

And sweeps the howling skies.
Ye nations bend, in rev'rence bend,

Ye monarchs wait his nod, And bid the choral song ascend

To celebrate our God.

LXIII.

The Lord our God is Lord of all,

His station who can find ? I hear him in the waterfall!

I hear him in the wind !

If in the gloom of night I shroud,

His face I cannot fly :
I see him in the evening cloud,

And in the morning sky.
He lives, he reigns, in every land,

From winter's polar snows,
To where across the burning sand

The blasting meteor glows.

He smiles, we live—he frowns, we die

We hang upon his word :
He rears his red right arm on high,

And ruin bares his sword.

He bids his blasts the fields deform

Then, when his thunders cease, Sits like the ruler of the storms,

And smiles the winds to peace !

LXIV.

Hail! the heavenly scenes of peace,
Where all the storms of passion cease;
Wild life's dismaying struggles o'er,
The wearied spirit weeps no more.
But wears the eternal smile of joy,
Attaining bliss without alloy!
Welcome, welcome happy bowers,
Where no passing tempest lowers;
Where the azure heavens display
The everlasting beams of day;
Where the radiant seraph choirs
Pour their strains from golden lyres ;
Where calm the spirit sinks to peace,
Lull'd by angelic symphonies !
0! then to think of meeting there
The friends whose grave receiv'd our tear !
The child long lost, the wife bereav’d,
Back to our widow'd arms receiv'd!
And all the joys which death did sever,
Given to us again for ever!
0, Lamb of God, by sorrow prov'd
The friend of man, the Christ belov'd,
To thee this sweetest hope we owe,
Which warms our shivering hearts below.

LXV.

THROUGH sorrow's night, and danger's path,

Amid the deepening gloom,
We soldiers of an injured king

Are marching to the tomb.
There, when the turmoil is no more,

And all our powers decay,
Our cold remains, in solitude,

Shall sleep the years away. Our labours done, securely laid

In this our last retreat, Unheeded o'er our silent dust,

The storms of life shall beat.
Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,

The vital spark shall lie,
For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise,

To seek its kindred sky.
These ashes too, this little dust,

Our father's care shall keep,
Till the last angel rise and break

The long and dreary sleep.
Then love's soft dew o'er every eye

Shall shed its mildest rays,
And the long silerat dust shall burst

With shouts of endless praise.

LXVI.

What is this passing scene ?

A peevish April-day?
A little suna little rain
And then night sweeps along the plain,
And all things fade away:
Man (soon discuss’d)

Yields up his trust;
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust !

And what is beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies;
Will the cold earth it's silence break,
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek
Beneath it's surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O'er beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more, when mantled in her pall.

The most belov'd on earth

Not long survives to-day ;
So music past is obsolete,
And yet ’twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
But now 'tis gone away :

Thus does the shade,

In memory face,
When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid !