And he who has but tears to give, But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, When joy no longer soothes or cheers, Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, Come, brightly wafting through the gloom Our Peace-branch from above? Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright As darkness shows us worlds of light WEEP NOT FOR THOSE. (AIR. - AVISON.) WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb, [it, Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profan'd what was born for the skies. Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,1 Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale, And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow. Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying, Weep not for her in her spring-time she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd; And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world. THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine; My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine; This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 31. 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after: the sound of her marriage-bells seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, (particularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven,") which this very interesting girl had often heard me sing during the summer. My censer's breath the mountain airs, My choir shall be the moonlight waves, Even more than music, breathes of Thee! I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, I'll read thy anger in the rack That clouds awhile the day-beam's track; Thy mercy in the azure hue Of sunny brightness, breaking through. There's nothing bright, above, below, There's nothing dark, below, above, 1 Pii orant tacitè. SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. MIRIAM'S SONG. (AIR. — AVISON.') "And Miriam the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances."-Exod. xv. 20. SOUND the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Sing for the pride of the Tyrant is broken, His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave— How vain was their boast, for the LORD hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; Praise to the Conqueror ! praise to the LORD! Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the LORD hath looked out from his pillar of glory2, And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; JEHOVAH has triumph'd — his people are free! 1 I have so much altered the character of this air, which is from the beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognised. "And it came to pass, that, in the morning watch, the Lord looked unto the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians." - Exod. xiv. 24. GO, LET ME WEEP. (AIR. Go, let me weep STEVENSON.) there's bliss in tears, When he who sheds them inly feels Effac'd by every drop that steals. Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves COME NOT, O LORD. (AIR. - HAYDN.) COME not, O LORD, in the dread robe of splendour Thou wor'st on the Mount, in the day of thine ire; Come veil'd in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender, Which Mercy flings over thy features of fire! |