170
poems.
Our gift,—it is the low-breathed prayer,
The swelling strain of grateful praise.
Our tongues Thy glory shall declare,
Whose goodness crowns our lengthened days.
The swelling strain of grateful praise.
Our tongues Thy glory shall declare,
Whose goodness crowns our lengthened days.
So, when life's autumn day shall come,
And call Thy servants to their rest,
Grant we may sing our "harvest home,"
'Mid the bright myriads of the blest.
And call Thy servants to their rest,
Grant we may sing our "harvest home,"
'Mid the bright myriads of the blest.
In holier, more angelic strains,
Our harps shall join the choir above,
Where grandeur, glory, rapture reigns,
And heaven is one wide realm of love.
Our harps shall join the choir above,
Where grandeur, glory, rapture reigns,
And heaven is one wide realm of love.
ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.
Come ye in holy fear,
Around our loved one's tranquil rest to bend;
While faith's sustaining tones to heaven ascend,
Draw ye in silence near:
She sleeps in death's unwakening slumber there,—
Death, coldly, calmly, beautifully fair.
Around our loved one's tranquil rest to bend;
While faith's sustaining tones to heaven ascend,
Draw ye in silence near:
She sleeps in death's unwakening slumber there,—
Death, coldly, calmly, beautifully fair.
Look on the marble brow,
Whose Parian pureness speaks her early doom,
A holy flower on heaven's bright shores to bloom.
In sacred silence now,
Whose Parian pureness speaks her early doom,
A holy flower on heaven's bright shores to bloom.
In sacred silence now,
