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Expectant angels cry, "O come!”
And saints prepare their gladdest song, Those wandering feet to welcome home,
Which fifteen years have strayed too long : Come, then, and all shall triumph o'er One dear, lost, rescued sinner more.
ON DREAMING OF MY MOTHER.
Stay, gentle shadow of my mother, stay :
Thy form but seldom comes to bless my sleep.
to wake and weep. Oh ! I was dreaming of those golden days
When, will my guide, and pleasure all my aim, I rambled wild through childhood's flowery maze,
And knew of sorrow scarcely by her name. Those scenes are fled ! and thou, alas, art fled,
Light of my heart, and guardian of my youth! Then come no more to slumbering fancy's bed,
To aggravate the pangs of waking truth : Or, if kind sleep these visions will restore, Oh, let me sleep again, and never waken more!
“IT DOTH NOT YET APPEAR WHAT WE
Y E lingering hours, wheel swift away,
Too long I've waited here below,
How favoured they, who once on earth
How blest, to look up in Thy face,
A lot like this is not for me,
On earth to thus converse with Thee ;
Yet do I hope at last to rise,
To view Him 'mid His flock, and share With them the mighty Shepherd's care ; To hear His saints their tributes pay, And be myself as loud as they.
Till time shall bring this glad event,
But through the gloom at times He looks,
Then haste, ye lingering hours, away,