Hymn Xxxix : Night Forbear; Alas, Our Praise, - Poem by John Austin
Night forbear; alas, our Praise,
And our young begining hope,
Set to grow on these blest days,
Faint and dull requires more scope.
'Twill not hear, but sullen flys,
Summons all the world to sleep,
Bids us close our books and eys,
What w'have gain'd content to keep.
Blessed Saints! this broken rate
Bids our slownes ply its wings:
While your quick and active state
Always wakes, and always sings.
Yet ev'n This your School, too, was;
And your now unweary'd Lays,
By this change of sing and Pause,
Here 'mong us you learnt to raise.
Here you, thus, took often breath;
Yet have climb'd those hills of light:
O may your success bequeath
Hope to reach that glorious hight.
Though our Notes be short and few,
And our Rests too oft and long;
If we keep in tune with you,
We at last shall sing your song.
If our utmost humble powers
Here our daily pray'rs attend:
These poor Psalms shall there like yours,
In a nightless Compline end.
Glory Lord to Thee alone,
Here below, as there above:
May thy joys, Great Three in one,
Ever draw and crown our love.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You