Our name, our race, our destined home,

'Our cause of joy or woe,

'Our country is Emanuel's land,
We seek that promised soil;
'The songs of Zion cheer our hearts,
'While strangers here we toil.

'Oft do our eyes with joy o'erflow, And oft are bathed in tears,

'Yet nought but heaven our hopes can raise, 'And nought but sin our fears.

'The flowers that spring along the road

We scarcely stoop to pluck,

'We walk o'er beds of shining ore, Nor waste one wishful look:

We tread the path our Master trod, "We bear the cross he bore;

'And every thorn that wounds our feet 'His temples pierced before;

Our powers are oft dissolved away

In ecstasies of love,

And while our bodies wander here,

"Our souls are fixed above:

We purge our mortal dross away,

'Refining as we run;

But while we die to earth and sense, "Our heaven is begun.'

9*

AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

Deus est quodcunque vides, quocunque moveris.

LUCAN.

GoD of my life! and author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue
That hallowed name to harps of Seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest Seraphs could no more
Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere
Are equal all, for all are nothing here.

All nature faints beneath the mighty name,
Which nature's works thro' all her parts proclaim.
I feel that name my inmost thoughts controul,
And breathe an awful stillness thro' my soul;
As by a charm, the waves of grief subside;
Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide:

At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And my hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace,
Till every worldly thought within me dies,
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes;
Till all my sense is lost in infinite,

And one vast object fills my aching sight.

But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke; My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, And mingles with the dross of earth again. But he, our gracious Master, kind, as just, Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, Sees the first wish to better hopes inclin'd; Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, And fans the smoking flax into a flame. His ears are open to the softest cry, His grace descends to meet the lifted eye; He reads the language of a silent tear, And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give; Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live: From each terrestrial bondage set me free; Still every wish that centers not in thee;

Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease,
And point my path to everlasting peace.

If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads
By living waters, and thro' flow'ry meads,
When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene,
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene,
Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare,
And whisper to my sliding heart-beware!
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice,
And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice.

If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way, Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And with strong confidence lay hold on thee; With equal eye my various lot receive, Resigned to die, or resolute to live; Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While GoD is seen in all, and all in GOD.

I read his awful name, emblazoned high With golden letters on the illumined sky; Nor less the mystic characters I see