"I do set my bow in the cloud; and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth."-Gen. ix. 13.
As when the blue autumnal sky
Is clad in cloudy drapery,
The garment of a storm;
And every thing is dark and drear,
Each rain-drop is a falling tear,
And nature seems to mourn;
So when the spirit breathes within,
Teaching the sinfulness of sin,
And what its wages are,
Sorrows o'erwhelm the guilty mind;
A guide we need, but cannot find
The "bright and morning star."
But nature's smile is soon restored,
The weeping for her absent Lord
So quickly dried away:
He darts his ray again to show,
That God still paints the mystic bow,
To bid the waters stay.
For he in pity deals with man;
The "smoking flax" he loves to fan,
And bind "the bruised reed;"
His Spirit guides our wand'ring feet
To Jesus Christ the mercy-seat,
Our help in every need.
THE path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
No trav'ller ever reach'd that blest abode,
Who found not thorns and briers on his road.
For He, who knew what human hearts would
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature, and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still.
In pity to the souls his grace design'd
To rescue from the ruins of mankind;
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, "Go, spend them in the vale of tears!"
O balmy gales of soul reviving air!
O salutary streams that murmur there!
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
These breathed from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil, indeed, their feet annoys,
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys;
An envious world will interpose its frown,
To mar delights superior to its own;
And many a pang experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin;
But ills of every shape and every name,
Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim;
And every moment's calm that soothes the breast,
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.
It is an hour of holy hush and calm,
Of dewy stillness breathing from each vale, Of birds' low vesper, and of fragrant balm,
Borne whispering low upon the twilight gale; With faint sound mingled of the distant chime Of Sabbath-bell at this calm even-time.
It is an hour of rest to all the earth:
The village-hamlet and its noise are still, And hush'd to sleep is childhood's voice of mirth, And nought is heard but the low singing rill; Or voice of bell from yonder ivied tower, With sullen sound proclaiming the past hour.
It is an hour when twilight shadows rise,
And earth and ocean rest beneath the gloom,
And the first star appears in yonder skies,
Telling of realms beyond the silent tomb; While night comes on with her lone starry train, And the young moon sheds forth her light again.
It is an hour when holy thoughts arise,
An hour to bend in still and solemn prayer, To call each thought back to those starry skies, And view with wonder those bright myriads
Spread out afar by the same wondrous power,
Who gave to man eve's silent tranquil hour.
WHAT a varying scene is a village church-yard,
How solemn, how sad, then how gay;
How oft has the mourner wept o'er its sod,
How oft has the foot of the mirthful trod
Its paths on a festive day!
'Tis the Sabbath morn, and the pealing bell
Tolls deep from the ivied tower;
While the oaken porch and the neighbouring yew
Are throng'd by the crowds who attend to renew
Their vows at that sacred hour.
With that holy calm, that composure of soul,
Which is joy though devoid of mirth;
With devotion diffusing sweet peace through the breast,
They hail the return of the day of rest,
Which to them is a heaven on earth.
It is evening-and now from the turret grey
Tolls forth a more solemn sound;
And I see in the distance a funeral train
As they silently move o'er the village plain,
To the gate of the hallowed ground.
It was lately I stood by a sister's grave,
My heart has not ceased to feel; .
I follow'd her corse to its lowly cell,
I wept as I listen'd her funeral kuell-
There was anguish in its peal.
And now as I join with the sorrowing band,
I can hear the low bursting sigh;
'Tis the moment the beautiful prayer has been said,
And the earth has been closed o'er the loved one dead
But the evening is pass'd, and the mourners are
And the sun rises smiling and gay;
And now, oh how changed is the village green, How changed is the church-yard where sadness had been,
On the eve of the Sabbath-day!
On the pathway that leads to the oaken porch,
Young maidens have strewn fresh flowers;
And lightly steps o'er them the beautiful bride,
With the innocent gayness of rural pride,
As blithe as in childhood's hours.
And now the old tower rings a merry peal,
And in many a heart there is mirth;
But a sigh will arise, though I smile on the maid,
As I turn to the spot where so lately was laid,
That corse in its cold, cold earth.
For oh! what is life ?-'tis a varying scene,
Like a church-yard, from solemn to gay:
And religion alone can diffuse through the whole,
That devotional calm, which each worshipper's
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