Though full of fears Thou art with anguish, thy sad lot bewailing— And see bright dawn o'er darkest night prevailing. If cloudless skies With life and gladness fill thy grateful being- From Him whose power works far beyond thy seeing. Look backward, till Thou seest God's hand reached out protecting o'er us, And trust Him still, Though wrathful foes in thousands range before us. It is thy part With silent lips to taste thy bitter portion, Rebel no more with wild and vain commotion. One long, long night Our people suffered scorn and wrath and sorrow, But morning light Led them God's way to meet a glorious morrow. 95 THE HOPE OF NATIONS. The sullen ice has crept from many fields ; The conflict, though so turbulent, is past; Again the spring its wealth of verdure yields, The probing sun has conquered cold at last. It is the Paschal of reviving earth, And all the sunny joys, till now concealed, Then let our festival to all proclaim 96 THE PRAISE OF THE FREE. O holy Father, just and true Are all Thy works and words and ways; And unto Thee alone are due Thanksgiving and eternal praise! 97 As children of Thy precious care, We veil the eye, we bend the knee, With broken words of praise and prayer, Father and God, we come to Thee. For Thou hast heard, O God of right, The shackled soul and hand are free; Speed on Thy work, Lord God of Hosts! The anthem of the free to heaven, O not to those whom Thou hast led THE GROWING DAY. Oppressions shall not always reign; There comes a brighter day, When freedom, burst from every chain, 98 Then right shall over might prevail, And truth's full armed array What voice shall bid the progress stay Of truth's victorious car? What arm shall dare, tho' stout and strong, The hour of triumph comes apace, When earth upon a ransom'd race TRUE FREEDOM. Is true freedom but to break They are slaves who fear to speak They are slaves, who will not choose Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; In the right with two or three. 99 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast; Their giant branches tossed; The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. |