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Jehovah's work and glory show,

By burning day or gentle night.
In silence, through the vast profound,

They move their orbs of fire on high,
Nor speech, nor word, nor answering sound,

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,



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.

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God of the earth's extended plains !

The dark, green fields contented lie ;
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky;
The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,

With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands;
Then the white sails are dashed like foam,

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale

Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

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God of the forest's solemn shade!

The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,

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?

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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 ;
So faith springs in the heart of those

Whose eyes are bathed in tears.

But soon the morning's happier light

Its glory shall restore;
And eyelids that are sealed in death

Shall wake, to close no more.

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