THE week is past, the Sabbath dawn comes on;
Rest-rest in peace--thy daily toil is done;
And, standing, as thou standest, on the brink
Of a new scene of being, calmly think
Of what is gone, is now, and soon shall be,
As one that trembles in Eternity.
So sure as this now closing week is past,
So sure advancing time will close my last;
Sure as to-morrow, shall the awful light
Of the eternal morning hail my sight.
Spirit of God! on this week's verge I stand,
Tracing the guiding influence of thy hand;
That hand which leads me kindly, gently, still
Up life's dark, stony, rough, and tiresome hill :
Thou, thou in every storm hast shelter'd me,
Beneath the wing of thy benignity ;——
A thousand graves thy footsteps circumvent,
And I exist, thy mercy's monument!
A thousand writhe upon a bed of pain
I live-and pleasure flows through every vein;
Want o'er a thousand wretches waves her wand-
I, circled by ten thousand mercies, stand.
How can I praise thee, Father! how express
My debt of reverence and thankfulness--
A debt that no intelligence can count,
Whose every moment swells its vast amount.
For the week's duties thou hast giv'n me strength,
And brought me to its tranquil close at length;
And here my grateful bosom fain would raise
A fresh memorial to thy glorious praise.
WILLIAM KNOX.
BORN, 1789; DIED, 1825.
THE ATHEIST.
PSALM XIV. 1.
THE fool hath said, "There is no God:"
No God!-Who lights the morning sun,
And sends him on his heavenly road,
A far and brilliant course to run?
Who, when the radiant day is done,
Hangs forth the moon's nocturnal lamp,
And bids the planets one by one,
Steal o'er the night-vales, dark and damp?
No God!-Who gives the evening dew,
The fanning breeze, the fostering shower?
Who warms the spring-morn's budding bough,
And paints the summer's noontide flower?
Who spreads in the autumnal bower,
The fruit-tree's mellow stores around;
And sends the winter's icy power,
T' invigorate the exhausted ground?
No God!-Who makes the bird to wing
Its flight like arrow through the sky;
And gives the deer its power to spring
From rock to rock triumphantly?
Who formed Behemoth, huge and high,
That at a draught the river drains ;
And great Leviathan to lie,
Like floating isle, on ocean plains?
No God!-Who warms the heart to heave
With thousand feelings soft and sweet,
And prompts the aspiring soul to leave
The earth we tread beneath our feet,
And soar away on pinions fleet,
Beyond the scene of mortal strife,
With fair ethereal forms to meet,
That tell us of an after life?
No God!-Who fixed the solid ground
On pillars strong, that alter not?
Who spread the curtained skies around?
Who doth the ocean bounds allot?
Who all things to perfection brought
On earth below, in heaven abroad?—
Go ask the fool of impious thought,
That dares to say,--" There is no God!"
PAST-PRESENT-FUTURE.
THE time when I played with the king-cup flowers,
Those golden gifts of summer hours;
The time when I danced o'er the purple heath,
And scarcely felt the earth beneath,
And, smiling, looked to the sky above,
That spread o'er me in cloudless love;
When my step was as light as the roving wind,
That kissed the flowers in my tresses twined;
When my eyes undimmed by a dark tear shone,-
That blessed time is gone, is gone!
The time when I loved to sit at noon,
And hearken to the wood-bird's tune;
When the flowers and leaves upon each tree,
Were more than flowers and leaves to me;
When my spirit in fancy floated along,
And around my heart was a dream of song;
The time when I lay by the river's side,
That had words for me in its murmuring tide;
When my life like the waves of the stream went on,
Bright, pure, and sparkling,--is gone, is gone!
And the hours of darkness and days of gloom,
That shadow and shut out joy, are come;
And there's a mist on the laughing sea,
And the flowers and leaves are nought to me;
And on my brow are furrows left,
And my lip of ease and smile is reft;
And the time of gray hairs and trembling limbs,
And the time when sorrow the bright eye dims,
And the time when death seems nought to fear,
So sad is life,-is here, is here!
But the time when the quiet grave shall be
A haven, a resting-place for me;
When the strong ties of earth are wrenched,
And the burning fever of life is quenched;
When the spirit shall leave its mortal mould,
And face to face its God behold;
When around it joy and gladness shall flow,
Purer than ever it felt below;
When heaven shall be for ever its home,--
Oh! this holiest time is still to come!
WHAT spell has o'er the populous city pass'd?
The wonted current of its life is stay'd;
Its sports, its gainful schemes are earthward cast,
As though their vileness were at once display'd;
The roar of trade has ceas'd, and on the air
Come holy songs, and solemn sounds of prayer.
Far spreads the charm: from every hamlet spire,
A note of rest, and heavenward thought is peal'd;
By his calm hearth reclines the peasant sire;
The toil-worn steed basks in the breezy field. Within, without, through farm and cottage blest, 'Tis one bright day of gladness and of rest.
Down from the mountain dwellings, whilst the dew
Shines on the heath-bells, and the fern is bending
In the fresh breeze, in festive garbs I view
Childhood, and age, and buoyant youth descending. God!--who hast pil'd thy wonders round their home, 'Tis in their love they to thy temple come.
A stately ship speeds o'er the mighty main-
Oh! many a league from our own happy land:
Yet from its heart ascends the choral strain;
For there its little isolated band,
Amid the ocean desert's awful roar,
Praise Him whose love links shore to distant shore.
O'er palmy woods, where summer radiance falls,
In the glad islands of the Indian main,
What thronging crowds the missionary calls,
To raise to heaven the Christian's glorious strain;
Lo! where, engirt by children of the sun,
Stands the white man, and counts his victories won.
In the fierce deserts of a distant zone,
'Mid savage nations, terrible and stern, A lonely atom sever'd from his own,
The traveller wends, death or renown to earn.
Parch'd, fasting, wearied, verging to despair,
He kneels, he prays-hope kindles in his prayer.
O'er the wide world, blest day, thine influence flies,
Rest o'er the sufferer spreads her balmy wings;
Love wakes, joy dawns, praise fills the listening skies;
The expanding heart from earth's enchantment springs;
Heaven, for one day, withdraws its ancient ban,
Unbars its gates, and dwells once more with man,
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