One moment—then the wish is o’er:
The sun begins to shine;
I lift my heart in thankfulness,
And say, “Thy will is mine.”
’Tis true, of poverty and pain
We both have had our share,
But do you think in all the world
There is a happier pair?
I know the harvest-time is near,—
I know the Reaper stands
Before us, and I tremble much
Lest he unlock our hands
But God will be our strength and shield,
Our refuge in that hour;
And he will join our hands again
Beyond the Reaper’s power.
Now let me wipe away those tears;
Forget my gloomy talk,
And with your own improve the scene
And sanctify our walk:
So that with Nature’s melody
Our hearts may be in tune,
And send up incense like the flowers
This pleasant day in June!
How softly yonder pale star beams above my head to-night!
How beautiful it appears in the azure vault of heaven
where twilight holds the connecting link between day
and night. Oh, if my soul were freed from its
clayey fetters how swiftly it would fly (if such a
journey were possible) to the boundaries of that sweet
star! Can that fair planet, seemingly so pure
and spotless, be inhabited by beings as frail and
erring as ourselves? Can there be any sad souls
there to-night— any who are weeping over
blighted hopes and blasted prospects? It may
be so; and yet perchance such a thing as a pang of
sorrow and a burning tear are unknown, for it may
be sin has never entered there. Vain,
useless conjectures! But will the veil which hides
the scenes of other worlds from our eyes never be
withdrawn? ... Surely it is because God is merciful
that I have been spared through another day. I
cannot forbear wondering that I have been spared so
long,—that I have not been cut down as
a cumberer of the ground. O God, according to
thy loving-kindness preserve me. Grant that I
may yet be an humble instrument in thy hand of doing
something for the good of thy cause. Forgive
my numberless sins and at last receive me to glory.—July
20, 1852.
It is a lovely scene; the sun has set,
But left his glory in the western sky
Where daylight lingers, half regretful yet
That sombre Night, her sister, draweth
nigh,
And one pale star just looketh from on
high;
’Tis neither day nor night, but both have lent
Their own peculiar charms to please the
eye,—
Declining day its sultry heat has spent,
And calm, refreshing night its grateful coolness lent.
The lake is sleeping—on its quiet breast
Are clouds of every tint the rainbows
wear,
Some are in crimson, some in gold are dressed.
Oh, had I wings, like yonder birds of
air,
How I would love to dip my pinions there,
Then mount exulting to the heavenly gate,—
A song of love and gratitude to bear
To Him who gives the lowly and the great,
In earth, and sea, and sky, so glorious an estate.
