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HYMN

FOR

THE SONS OF THE CLERGY,

* And behold I have taken the Levites from among the children of Israel."

NUMBERS III. 12.

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How blest those olive plants that grow

Beneath the altar's sacred shade, Where streams of fresh instruction flow

And Comfort's humble board is spread.

'Twas thus the swallow rear'd her young,

Secure within the house of God, Of whom the Royal Prophet sung,

When banish'd from that blest abode.

When, like the swallow's tender brood,

They leave the kind paternal dome,
On weary wing to seek their food,
Or find in other climes a home

;

Where'er they roam, where'er they rest,

Thro' all the varied scenes of life, Whether with tranquil plenty blest,

Or doom'd to share the deadly strife ;

Still may the streams of grace divine

Glide softly near their devious way; And faith's fair light serenely shine,

To change their darkness into day,

Still may they with fraternal love

Each other's shield and aid become ; And while thro' distant realms they rove,

Remember still their childhood's home;

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The simple life, the frugal fare,

The kind parental counsels given, The tender love, the pious care,

That early winged their hopes to heav'n. And when the evening shades decline,

And when life's toilsome task is o'er, May they each earthly wish resign,

And holier, happier climes explore.

And when the faithful shepherds view

Each ransom'd flock around them spread, How will they bless the plants that grew

Beneath the altar's sacred shade!

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What sound of woe from yonder grove

Floats mournful on the dying gale ? Like echo to the plaintive dove,

Responsive thro' the winding vale.

Each chaster love and milder grace

There weep round gentle Jessy's tomb, There join to consecrate the place,

And teach the flowers more lasting bloom.

Though now, an undecaying flow'r,

She decks the bright celestial shore, And past the final painful hour,

She suffers grief and care no more !

Yet oft shall pity's melting tear

Bedew the turf where Jessy lies ; And often shall her fate severe

Dissolve in woe the brightest eyes.

The virgin choir shall there resort,

And there with sad remembrance tell, How thro' malicious cruel sport

She envy's early victim fell.

Though formed in beauty's softest mould,

No pride her spotless bosom knew; As

years increasing onward roll’d, Her gentle mind more timid grew.

Unknown to her each trivial art,

Which callous, hollow breasts conceal ; Sway'd by the feelings of her heart,

That artless heart was form’d to feel ;

With pure and faithful love to glow,

To cherish friendship’s sacred tie, To melt away in virtuous woe,

Or throb with tenderest sympathy.

Unskill'd in envy's treacherous ways,

How could she guard against its power ?

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