Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/34

That drinks its splendour from the light
 That flows from mercy's beaming car;
Thy footstool, Lord, each starry gem
Composes—not Thy diadem.

And when the radiant orb of light
 Hath tipped the mountain-tops with gold;
Smote with the blaze, my weary sight
 Shrinks from the wonders I behold;
That ray of glory, bright and fair,
Is but Thy living shadow there.

Thine is the silent gloom of night,
 The twilight eve—the dewy mom;
Whate'er is beautiful and bright,
 Thine hands have fashioned to adorn.
Thy glory walks in every sphere,
And all things whisper, "God is here!"

O God, Who Metest in Thine Hand.

O God, who metest in Thine hand
The waters of the mighty sea,
And barrest ocean with the sand,
By Thy perpetual decree;

What time the floods lift up their voice,
And break in anger on the shore,
When deep to deep calls with the noise
Of waterspouts and billows' roar;

When they who to the sea go down,
And in the waters ply their toil,
Are lifted on the surge's crown,
And plunged where seething eddies boil;

"Rule then, O Lord, the ocean's wrath,
And bind the tempest with Thy will;
Tread, as of old, the water's path,
And speak Thy bidding, "Peace, be still!"

So with Thy mercies ever new
Thy servants set from peril free,
And bring them,—Pilot wise and true,—
Unto the port where they would be.