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AWAKE MY LYRE
Be tan'd to our Creator's praise ;
To heaven's gate the accents raise :
Which Angels sing, my heart inspire
Along each chord to tune my lyre.
The birds are singing in the grove,
Will man forget his Maker's love?
The earth, and still upholds the whole :
Nor praise him with his heart and soul ?
Ia clouds of gold has left the sky;
And all its actions known on high.
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.
To sooth the lonely dying bed,
To cast a halo round his head.
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
SACRED POETRY-ITS SUPERIORITY AND
* RORENT POLLOK, author of the “ Course of Time," was a youthful poet of great promise, but alas! his career was soon cut short; and he has left a meniento behind, in that powerful though unequal poem which will embalm his me. zory on the heart of every true lover of eloquent and im. ioned song
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.
Take one example, to our purpose quite :
And reputation, and luxurious life ;
Above him seem'd
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
Ther His Sures Rock
AL Allt All Het
He touch'd his harp, and nations heard entranced
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flow'd,