THE SABBATH. The day that God calls his, make not thine own MS. Poetry of the Seventeenth Century. Toil! with thy thousand cares, away! I seek its hallowed rest. When virgin Earth was young, The word that blest it came; With trumpet's voice the mandate rung Joy for the Sabbath hours! My soul, think on thy vow; Lie trembling, ye tumultuous powers! This Resurrection Morn Broke ancient Midnight's spell, When ONE of lowly woman born, Spoiled Death and eager Hell. Up, for retirement's haunt! The solemn, secret place, Where God supplies the spirit's want With treasures of his grace. Its hushed and early hour The Sabbath day-break! — Oh, there's power Up! where Devotion waits, Where the bowed heart adores; Be lifted, oh, ye temple gates! Of rising anthem, humbly kneel The bread and wine are here; Thou, whom thy heart esteems as least, Art welcome to the cheer. The spousals of the King And Church are held to-day; Thy willing gift of gladness bring, And bring thy white array. Weep, follower, beneath the cross, Oh, not alone by those :— Yet darker is the frown: The CHRISTIAN joins the Sabbath foes, By him 'tis trodden down! NIAGARA.. NIAGARA!-the poetry of God! Whose numbers tell, in everlasting hymn, Returned them, softened, round the universe. SHIP OF THE LINE PENNSYLVANIA. "LEAP forth to the careering seas," Oh, ship of lofty name! And toss upon thy native breeze The stars and stripes of fame! And bear thy thunders o'er the deep Where vaunting navies ride! - None from the compact shrinks afraid, We pledge our fervent love, and thou Thy glorious ribs of oak, Alive with men who cannot bow To kings, nor kiss the yoke! Speed lightnings o'er the Carib Sea, And keep, where sail the merchant ships, And promptly, through thine iron lips, In pride of their own little hour, Spread out those ample wings of thine! While crime doth govern men, 'Tis fit such bulwark of the brine Should leave the shores of PENN; For hid within thy giant strength Whose sons can die, but know not how 1837. SUCH MAY NOT I. In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, Sweet Spirit! comfort me. Litany, by Robert Herrick. WHO of our mortal race is he, So firmly fixed by fortune's power, That from the shock he's counted free, Of tossing waves, in trouble's hour? Let him still clasp his fancied bliss, And look defiance, too, on care, Not heeding, in a world like this, If there's a better known, or where:- |