Where the wilderness is lying, Westward, still, oh Lord, in glory Be thy bannered cross unfurled, Till from vale to mountain hoary, Rolls the anthem round the world; Reign, oh reign o'er every nation, Reign, Redeemer, Father, King, And with songs of thy salvation, Let the wide creation ring! RIGHT GLAD WAS I. RIGHT glad was I when unto me, Oh let us up to Zion-hill, The city of our Lord! Our feet shall stand within thy gates, Jerusalem, our home, And to thy temples beauty-built, Our wearied steps shall come. Oh thither all the tribes go up, And there the golden censers smoke, There incense-wreaths forever rise, And there the Lord is known, And there is set his judgment-seat, His glory, and his throne! Oh pray ye for Jerusalem, Who blesseth her is blest; For there my father's children dwell; BERKELEY. OFT when the eve-star, sinking into day, Nigh did I leap, on Clio's calmer line, On Yale's full walls, no pictured shape to me Such there he seemed, the pure, the undefiled! Who reap his fields, but let his doctrine die, For Spoke the full heart, that now may breathe it more, Still in those halls, where none without a sneer Stand up, bold bishop-in thy priestly vest; HAST been where the full blossomed bay-tree is blowing Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is growing, And ate the cool gourds of their clime; Or slept where magnolias were screening the moon, And didst mark, in thy journey, at dew-dropping eve, With rooks wheeling round it, and bushes to weave Did ye ask if some lord of the cavalier kind Lived there, when the country was young ? And burned not the blood of a Christian, to find How there the old prayer-bell had rung? And did ye not glow, when they told ye-the Lord And that bones of old Christians were under its sward, And had ye no tear-drops your blushes to steep O ye that shall pass by those ruins again, Pray God that those aisles may be crowded once more, As they take of the wine-cup and bread. Ay, pray on thy knees, that each old rural fane And the dim-lighted windows reveal to thine eye THE HEART'S SONG. IN the silent midnight watches, How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating; 'Tis thy heart of sin : "Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth Death comes down with reckless footstep To the hall and hut: Think you Death will stand a-knocking Jesus waiteth-waiteth-waiteth; But thy door is fast! Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth: Death breaks in at last. Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating At the gate of heaven beating, Wailing for thy sin. Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin, Jesus waited long to know thee, THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland, That out from fane and ivied tower Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, Sweet tales of olden time! And ring a thousand memories At vesper, and at prime; At bridal, and at burial, For cottager and king— Those chimes-those glorious Christian chimes How blessedly they ring! Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, For a Redeemer born; How merrily they call afar, To cot and baron's hall, With holly decked and mistletoe, The chimes of England, how they peal Where hymn and swelling anthem fill |