« ForrigeFortsæt »
What forms were those which darkly stood
rang the rifle-shot-and then
on thy fated head !
Whose hideous head, in death still feard,
THE FAMILIST'S HYMN.
Father! to thy suffering poor
Strength and grace and faith impart,
Comfort to the broken heart !
With a holier strength of zeal !
Helpless to the spoiler's heel !
We are spoiled and hunted thus ;
Bonds and burthens unto us :
Weary with our daily task,
Through our weakness, Lord, we ask.
Round our fired and wasted homes
Flits the forest-bird unscared,
Where our frugal meal was shared ;
Shricks the crow the livelong day,
Howls the evil beast of prey !
Sweet the songs we loved to sing
Underneath thy holy skyWords and tones that used to bring
Tears of joy in every eye, Dear the wrestling hours of prayer,
When we gathered knee to knee, Blameless youth and hoary hair,
Bow'd, O God, alone to thee. As thine early children, Lord,
Shared their wealth and daily bread, Even so, with one accord,
We, in love, each other fed. Not with us the miser's hoard,
Not with us his grasping hand; Equal round a common board,
Drew our meek and brother band !
Safe our quiet Eden lay
When the war-whoop stirred the land, And the Indian turn'd away
From our home his bloody hand. Well that forest-ranger saw,
That the burthen and the curse
Rested also upon us.
To our toiling hard and long,
Lift we still our grateful song!
In thy love which maketh free,
Draw us nearer, Lord, to thee!
Grateful !--that where'er we toil
By Wachuset's wooded side, On Nantucket's sea-worn isle,
Or by wild Neponset's tideStill, in spirit, we are near,
And our evening hymns which rise Separate and discordant here,
Meet and mingle in the skies!
Let the scoffer scorn and mock,
Let the proud and evil priest Rob the needy of his flock,
For his wine-cup and his feast,Redden not thy bolts in store
Through the blackness of thy skies ? For the sighing of the poor
Wilt Thou not, at length, arise ? Worn and wasted, oh, how long
Shall thy trodden poor complain? In thy name they bear the wrong,
In thy cause the bonds of pain i Melt oppression's heart of steel
, Let the haughty priesthood see, And their blinded followers feel,
That in us they mock at Thee! In thy time, O Lord of hosts,
Stretch abroad that hand to save Which of old, on Egypt's coasts,
Smote apart the Red Sea's wave! Lead us from this evil land,
From the spoiler set us free, And once more our gather'd band,
Heart to heart, shall worship Thee !
TRAVELLER! on thy journey toiling
By the swift Powow,
With the summer sunshine falling
On thy heated brow, Listen, while all else is still To the brooklet from the hill.
Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing
By that streamlet's side,
Where its waters glide-
Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth
O'er the sloping hill, Beautiful and freshly springeth
That soft-flowing rill,
In that magic well,
Ancient legends tell,-
Waters which the proud Castilian 31
Sought with longing eyes,
Of the Indian skies;
With the dusky brow
Crossed the swift Powow;