In darkness as in light,
Hidden alike from view,

I sleep, I wake, as in his sight
Who looks all nature through.

All that I am, have been, All that I yet may be, He sees at once, as he hath seen, And shall forever see.

"Forever with the Lord": Father, if 't is thy will, The promise of that faithful word Unto thy child fulfil!

So, when my latest breath Shall rend the veil in twain, By death I shall escape from death, And life eternal gain.

PRAYER.

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire
Uttered or unexpressed,

The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear;
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;
His watchword at the gates of death:
He enters heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice

Returning from his ways; While angels in their songs rejoice, And say, "Behold he prays!"

O Thou, by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way,
The path of prayer thyself hast trod:
Lord, teach us how to pray!

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

[1762-1827.]

WHILST THEE I SEEK.

WHILST Thee I seek, protecting Power,
Be my vain wishes stilled!
And may this consecrated hour

With better hopes be filled.

Thy love the power of thought bestowed;
To thee my thoughts would soar:
Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed,
That mercy I adore.

In each event of life, how clear
Thy ruling hand I see!
Each blessing to my soul more dear,
Because conferred by thee.

In every joy that crowns my days,
In every pain I bear,

My heart shall find delight in praise,
Or seek relief in prayer.

When gladness wings my favored hour, Thy love my thoughts shall fill; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower, My soul shall meet thy will.

My lifted eye, without a tear,

The gathering storm shall see; My steadfast heart shall know no fear; That heart shall rest on thee.

UNKNOWN.

THERE WAS SILENCE IN HEAVEN. CAN angel spirits need repose

In the full sunlight of the sky? And can the veil of slumber close A cherub's bright and blazing eye? Have seraphim a weary brow,

A fainting heart, an aching breast? No, far too high their pulses flow To languish with inglorious rest.

O, not the death-like calm of sleep Could hush the everlasting song; No fairy dream or slumber deep Entrance the rapt and holy throng.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

Yet not the lightest tone was heard
From angel voice or angel hand;
And not one pluméd pinion stirred
Among the pure and blissful band.
For there was silence in the sky,
A joy not angel tongues could tell,
As from its mystic fount on high
The peace of God in stillness fell.

O, what is silence here below?

The fruit of a concealed despair; The pause of pain, the dream of woe;It is the rest of rapture there.

And to the way worn pilgrim here,

More kindred seems that perfect peace, Than the full chants of joy to hear Roll on, and never, never cease.

From earthly agonies set free,

Tired with the path too slowly trod, May such a silence welcome me Into the palace of my God.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

[U. S. A., 1767-1848.]

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. SURE, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest, The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise,

Beyond where worlds material roll, Till some fair sister of the skies

Receives the unpolluted soul. That inextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth,
Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam
The more it lingers upon earth.

But when the Lord of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death
Which speeds an infant to the tomb,
No passion fierce, nor low desire,

Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back to its God the living fire

Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner! be that solace thine! Let Hope her healing charm impart, And soothe, with melodies divine, The anguish of a mother's heart.

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by,

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death,
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,
The majesty of darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!

Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste,
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth
The vassals of his will?

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim, discrownéd king of day;

For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again:

On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God!

GLENARA.

O, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,

Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?

'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;

And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;

Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:

did seem:

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

139

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry.'

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight: "I'll go, my chief, - I'm ready; It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady;

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry:

dream!"

I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace, And in the scowl of heaven each face The water-wraith was shrieking; Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode arméd men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,
When, O, too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her!

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore;
His wrath was changed to wailing.

shade,

solemn,

Which God hath planned;

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply;

Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder,

Its dome the sky.

Artist,

With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall,

What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all!

that swingeth,

And tolls its perfume on the passing

for pleasure;

Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night,

From every source your sanction bids

me treasure Harmless delight.

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope?