Come, with your guilt and sin oppressed,
   In Christ there’s pardon, peace and rest;
   Come, humbly bow before his feet,
   No vail conceals the mercy seat.

   Come, boldly to a throne of grace,
   The vilest here may find a place,—­
   For that dark vail was rent in twain,
   When Christ, the heavenly lamb, was slain.

   Come, rear no altar, slay no beast,
   Our Savior now is great high priest,
   He rent the vail, to make it plain,
   That free access should hence remain.

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To A long absent relative.

   Is Thy native land forgotten? 
     Wilt thou still a wand’rer be? 
   Have New England’s hills and valleys
     Lost their every charm for thee?

   Is thy native land forgotten? 
     Tell me, dost thou feel content,
   Far from that loved rural dwelling
     Where thine infant days were spent?

   Is thy native land forgotten,
     Where glad parents, filled with joy,
   Prayed for heaven’s richest blessings
     To attend their infant boy?

   Is thy native land forgotten,
     Laud where thou first drew thy breath,
   Where those sainted parents watched thee,
     Where they closed their eyes in death?

   Is thy native land forgotten? 
     Or dost thou revere the sod
   Where thy heart for sin was broken,
     Where thy soul found peace with God?

   Is that sacred stream forgotten,
     Where, immersed beneath the flood,
   Saying, “I with Christ am buried,
     And henceforth will live to God?”

   Is that hallowed spot forgotten? 
     Or does fancy paint it now,
   With bright angels hov’ring o’er it
     Waiting to record that vow?

   Are thy brothers all forgotten,
     Playmates ’neath New England’s skies? 
   When thy sisters’ names are mentioned,
     Do no warm emotions rise?

   Is that wasted form forgotten,
     Ling’ring ’round cold Jordan’s shore,
   Praying death to stay his arrow
     Till she hears thy voice once more?

   Can that sister be forgotten? 
     Thou art twining ’round her heart: 
   Come, and let her eyes behold thee,
     Let her soul in peace depart.

   Is that river’s shore forgotten,
     Where in childhood, oft we strayed;
   Where the grape in purple clusters,
     Ripen’d ’neath the elm tree’s shade?

   Tell, dear friend, hast thou forgotten,
     When beneath the apple tree,
   That fair group of young companions,
     Joined in merry sport with thee?

   That old apple tree has withered,
     And has vanished from the plain;
   But that group are all still living,—­
     Come, and meet with us again.

LINES