THE

SACRED LYRE.

AWAKE MY LYRE
Awake my lyre, and may thy string

Be tan'd to our Creator's praise ;
And let the breeze's balmy wing,

To heaven's gate the accents raise :
And oh! may those celestial lays,

Which Angels sing, my heart inspire
To guide my hand which feebly strays

Along each chord to tune my lyre.
Awake my lyre, 'tis morning hour;

The birds are singing in the grove,
And ’midst the song from bower to bower

Will man forget his Maker's love?
He who hath form'd the heavens above

The earth, and still upholds the whole :
Will man to God ungrateful prove,

Nor praise him with his heart and soul ?
Awake my lyre, the setting sun

Ia clouds of gold has left the sky;
And now another day is run,

And all its actions known on high.

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Then let my hand thy soft notes try

For heaven expects the evening song And may it bring the heartfelt sigh

For all my sins the whole day long. Awake my lyre, let some sweet lay,

Be tun'd the sorrowing heart to cheer ; That heaven may shed a kindly ray

And dry at once the mourner's tear. Let grief those ballow'd accents hear

Which echo round Jehovah's throne, That blessed place where those appear

Who in our Saviour's steps have gone.
Awake my lyre, with notes of joy,

To sooth the lonely dying bed,
And mingle with the sick man's sigh,

To cast a halo round his head.
And when his silent footsteps tread

The vale where death's dark valley lies, May music cheer till all is filed

All but the glories of the skies.

That Or Unt Ers MOT

WEIR

SACRED POETRY-ITS SUPERIORITY AND

INFLUENCE *
How beautiful is genius when combin'd
With holiness! oh! how divinely sweet

The tones of earthly harp, whose chords are

touch'd By the soft band of piety, and hang Upon religion's shrine, there vibrating With solemn music in the ear of God. And must the bard from sacred themes refrain ? Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal days, That, kneeling in the silence of his tent, Or on some moonlit hill, the shepherd pour'd Unto his Heavenly Father! Strains survive Erst chanted to the Lyre of Israel, More touching far than poet ever breath'd Amid the Grecian Isles, or later times Have heard in Albion, Land of every Lay. Why therefore are ye silent, ye who know The trance of adoration, and behold Upon your bended knees the Throne of Heaven, And Him who sits thereon ? Believe it not, That poetry in former days the nurse, Yea, parent oft of blissful piety, Should silent keep from service of her God, Nor with her summons, loud, but silver-tongued, Startle the guilty dreamer from his sleep, Bidding him gaze with rapture or with dread On regions where the sky for ever lies Bright as the sun himself, and trembling still With ravishing music, or where darkness broods O'er gbastly shapes, and sounds not to be borne.

BYRON

Take one example, to our purpose quite :
A man of rank, and of capacious soul,
Who riches had, and fame beyond desire,
An heir of flattery, to titles born,

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In

And reputation, and luxurious life ;
Yet, not content with ancestorial name,
Or to be known because his fathers were,
He on this height hereditary stood,
And gazing higher purpos'd in his heart
To take another step.

Above him seem'd
Alone the mount of Song—the lofty seat
Of canonized bards; and thitherward,
By nature taught, and inward melody,
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye.
No cost was spar'd. What books he wish'd, he

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read;

What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
He saw. And first, in rambling school-boy days,
Brittania's mountain-walks, and heath-girt lakes,
And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
And maids, as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul
With grandeur filld, and melody, and love.
Then travel came, and took him where be wish'd :
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp ;
And mus'd alone on ancient mountain brows;
And mus'd on battle-fields, where valour fought
In other days; and mus'd on ruins grey
With years; and drank from old and fabulous

wells;
And pluck'd the vine that first-born prophets

pluck'd ;
And mus'd on famous tombs : and on the wave
Of ocean mus'd; and on the desert waste.
The heavens and earth of every country saw :
Where'er the old inspiring genii dwelt,
Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul,
Thither he went, and meditated there.

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He touch'd his harp, and nations heard entranced
As some vast river of unfailing source,

They

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flow'd,
And op'd new fountains in the human heart.
Where fancy balted, weary in ber flight,
In other men, his fresh as morning rose,
And soar'd uptrodden heights, and seem'd at home
Where angels bashful look'd. Others, though

great,
Beneath their argument seem'd struggling whiles ;
He from above descending, stoop'd to touch
The loftiest thought; and proudly stoop'd, as tho'
It scarce desery'd his verse. With nature's self
He seem'd an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty,
He laid his band upon the “ Ocean's mane,"
And play'd familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talk'd, as friend to friend;
And wove bis garland of the lightning's wing.
In sportive twist the lightning's fiery wing,
Whích, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance seem'd-
Then turn'd, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song, beneath his feet, convers’d,
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were;
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and

storms,
His brothers--younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deem'd. All passions of all men-
The wild and tame--the gentle and severe;
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane ;
All creeds; all seasons, Time, Eternity,
All that was bated, and all that was dear;
All that was hop'd, all that was fear'd by man,
He toss'd about, as tempest-wither'd leaves,
Then, smiling, look'd upon the wreck be made.
With terror now he froze the cow'ring blood;