Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord who rises
With healing on His wings;
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(Isaiah, xii.1)
I will praise Thee every day
Now Thine anger's turn'd away;
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A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.
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'I love the Lord,' is still the strain
This heart delights to sing:
But I reply--your thoughts are vain,
Perhaps 'tis no such thing.
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In this mimic form of a matron in years,
How plainly the pencil of Denner appears!
The matron herself, in whose old age we see
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To Jesus, the crown of my hope,
My soul is in haste to be gone;
O bear me, ye cherubim, up,
And waft me away to His throne!
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Bewail not much, my parents! me, the prey
Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here.
An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year,
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The billows swell, the winds are high,
Clouds overcast my wintry sky;
Out of the depths to Thee I call, -
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Here, free from riot's hated noise,
Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys,
A book or friend bestows;
Far from the storms that shake the great,
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Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,
Till all who know him follow to the skies.
Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep;
...