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Jehovah's work and glory show,
By burning day or gentle night.
They move their orbs of fire on high,
Is heard upon the tranquil sky; Yet to the earth's remotest bar
Their burning glory, all is known; Their living light has sparkled far,
And on the attentive silence shone.
God, 'mid their shining legions, rears
A tent where burns the radiant sun: As, like a bridegroom bright, appears
The monarch, on his course begun, From end to end of azure heaven
He holds his fiery path along; To all his circling heat is given,
His radiance flames the spheres among, By sunny ray, and starry throns,
The wonders of our mighty Lord To man's attentive heart are known,
Bright as the promise of his word,
W. B. 0. PEABODY.
The late Rev. William B. O. Peabody was born at Exeter, New Hampshire, in 1799. He was educated at Cambridge, where he graduated in 1816. In 1820 he was established as a minister in the village of Springfield, Massachusetts, and resided there until his death, in 1848, discharging his professional duties, and writing much for the North American Review, and other periodicals.
God of the earth's extended plains !
The dark, green fields contented lie ;
Where man might commune with the sky;
That lowers upon the vale below,
With joyous music in their flow.
God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Hath summoned up their thundering bands;
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.
God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm. God of the light and viewless air !
Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All—from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry,
Breathe forth the language of thy power. God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings! Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee. God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light. For every
fire that fronts the sun, And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne. God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return; Her crumbling altars must decay;
Her incense fires shall cease to burn; But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow; For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.
Lift high the curtain's drooping fold,
And let the evening sunlight in; I would not that my heart grew cold
Before its better years begin. 'Tis well; at such an early hour,
So calm and pure, a sinking ray Should shine into the heart, with power
To drive its darker thoughts away.
The bright, young thoughts of early days
Shall gather in my memory now, And not the later cares, whose trace
Is stamped so deeply on my brow. What though those days return no more?
The sweet remembrance is not vain, For Heaven is waiting to restore
The childhood of my soul again.
Let no impatient mourner stand
In hollow sadness near my bed, But let me rest upon the hand,
And let me hear that gentle tread Of her, whose kindness long ago,
And still, unworn away by years, Has made my weary eyelids flow
With grateful and admiring tears.
I go, but let no plaintive tone,
The moment's grief of friendship tell ; And let no proud and graven stone
Say where the weary slumbers well. A few short hours, and then for heaven!
Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ; For who would mourn the warning given
Which calls us from a world like this?
The wind breathes low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree; So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.
How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed ! 'Tis like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast! 'Tis like the memory left behind
When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears ;
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore;
Shall wake, to close no more.