88
poems.
Till all his hope and pride were laid so low.
Now, as he weeps, he calls the man of God;
Not now he needeth him to cast his rod;
His heart believes! he bids him haste away.
God sends his people victory to-day!
Their wives, their little ones, are rous'd from rest,
And joyous faith makes glad the weary breast.
Swift they prepare to leave the stranger's land,
To seek a home provided by God's hand;
To find an altar for his worship there,
To offer sacrifice thereon, and pray'r.
And when the morning star adorns the east,
Their hundreds follow God's appointed priest;
In solemn grandeur th' bars of day unclose;
The sea divides, and far beyond them flows;
The sun shines brightly on a people free,
And silent all they bend, oh God, to thee![1]
Now, as he weeps, he calls the man of God;
Not now he needeth him to cast his rod;
His heart believes! he bids him haste away.
God sends his people victory to-day!
Their wives, their little ones, are rous'd from rest,
And joyous faith makes glad the weary breast.
Swift they prepare to leave the stranger's land,
To seek a home provided by God's hand;
To find an altar for his worship there,
To offer sacrifice thereon, and pray'r.
And when the morning star adorns the east,
Their hundreds follow God's appointed priest;
In solemn grandeur th' bars of day unclose;
The sea divides, and far beyond them flows;
The sun shines brightly on a people free,
And silent all they bend, oh God, to thee![1]
- ↑ This poem was suggested by the recollection of the Cholera season a few years since, when for nine successive nights our door was opened to receive the intelligence of some neighbour's calamity and the appeals of the poor; the accounts reaching us from other places being appalling in the extreme.
