A SABBATH EVENING SONG.
God of mercy! God of grace!
Keep me worthy of my place.
Let my harpstrings ne'er be heard
When they jar with thy plain word;
Should the world's fair pitfall take me,
Father! do not thou forsake me;
Let repentance cleanse the stain,
And call me back to truth again;
Father: Infinite and Just!
Shine upon my path of dust,
Lead me in the noontide light,
And be thou "watchman of my night!"
Keep me worthy of my place.
Let my harpstrings ne'er be heard
When they jar with thy plain word;
Should the world's fair pitfall take me,
Father! do not thou forsake me;
Let repentance cleanse the stain,
And call me back to truth again;
Father: Infinite and Just!
Shine upon my path of dust,
Lead me in the noontide light,
And be thou "watchman of my night!"
THE GALLOPING STEED.
There's a courser we ne'er have been able to rein—
He careers o'er the mountain, he travels the main—
He's Eternity's Arab—he trieth his pace
With the worlds in their orbits, and winneth the race.
Oh! a charger of mettle I warrant is he,
That will weary his riders, whoe'er they may be;
And we all of us mount, and he bears us along,
Without hearing our check-word or feeling our thong;
No will does he heed, and no rest does he need;
Oh a brave Iron Grey is this Galloping Steed.
He careers o'er the mountain, he travels the main—
He's Eternity's Arab—he trieth his pace
With the worlds in their orbits, and winneth the race.
Oh! a charger of mettle I warrant is he,
That will weary his riders, whoe'er they may be;
And we all of us mount, and he bears us along,
Without hearing our check-word or feeling our thong;
No will does he heed, and no rest does he need;
Oh a brave Iron Grey is this Galloping Steed.
On, on, and for ever, for ever he goes—
Where his halting-place is, not the wisest one knows;
He waits not to drink at the Joy-rippled rill;
He lags not to breathe up the Pain-furrow'd hill.
Right pleasant, forsooth, is our place on his back,
When he bounds in the sun on Life's flowery track;—
When his musical hoofs press the green moss of Hope,
And he tramples the pansy on Love's fairy slope;
Oh, the journeying then is right pleasant indeed,
As we laugh in our strength on this Galloping Steed.
Where his halting-place is, not the wisest one knows;
He waits not to drink at the Joy-rippled rill;
He lags not to breathe up the Pain-furrow'd hill.
Right pleasant, forsooth, is our place on his back,
When he bounds in the sun on Life's flowery track;—
When his musical hoofs press the green moss of Hope,
And he tramples the pansy on Love's fairy slope;
Oh, the journeying then is right pleasant indeed,
As we laugh in our strength on this Galloping Steed.
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