Yet not to men of royal birth,
Not to the sons of fame,
Not in the sceptred pomp of earth,
The meek Redeemer came.
No.—Turn to Nazareth's noteless bound,
Turn to the lowliest train
Who slowly o'er that thronging ground
Press on with pilgrim pain,
Turn to the manger, scorn'd and lone,
By humblest inmates trod,
And in devotion's deepest tone
Revere the Son of God.
ON THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1832.
The Year is past, whose hand hath led
Oft to the chamber of the dead,
Whose track amid remember'd time,
In many a race, and many a clime,
Is mark'd by agonies and fears,[1]
And clustering graves and mourner's tears.
But we, the spar'd, the favor'd band,
Who saw Destruction's Angel nigh,
Felt his dark pinion rushing by,
Yet still among the living stand,
How heed we Heaven's protecting hand?
Marks every day its annal fair,
With faithful deeds of pious care?
And bears each moment as it flies,
Some grateful message to the skies?
- ↑ Alluding to the cholera.
