Say,—"Break oblivion's sleep
And toil with florist's art,
To plant the germs of virtue deep
In childhood's fruitful heart,
To thee, the babe is given
Fair from its glorious Sire,
Go, nurse it for the King of Heaven,
And He will pay the hire."
THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON.
Look back, look back, ye gray-hair'd worshippers,
Who to this hill-top, fifty years ago
Came up with solemn joy; withdraw the folds
Which curtaining Time hath gather'd o'er the scene,
And show its coloring. The dark cloud of war
Faded to fitful sun-light, on the ear,
The rumor of red battle died away,
And there was peace in Zion. So a throng
O'er a faint carpet of the Spring's first green
Were seen in glad procession hasting on,
To set a watchman on these sacred walls.
Each eye upon his consecrated brow
Was fondly fix'd, for in its pallid hue,
In its deep, thought-worn, spiritual lines,
They trac'd the mission of the Crucified,
The hope of Israel. High the anthem swell'd,
Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts,
Who in his bounteous goodness thus vouchsaf'd
To beautify his temple.
The same strain
Riseth once more; but where are they who pour'd
