That's borne across the distant sea, Can their appeal be vain? O no! Thou didst but want some tongue to say, Grief's sons are here, and these are they. THE TRANSLATION OF ENOCH. Barton. THOUGH proudly through the vaulted sky Was borne Elisha's sire, And dazzling unto mortal eye To me as glorious seems the change As instantaneous and as strange Something which makes a deeper thrill These few brief words unfold, Than all description's proudest skill Could of that hour have told. Fancy's keen eye may trace the course Elijah held on high: The car of flame, each fiery horse, But thy transition mocks each dream Nor can her mastery supreme Were angels, with expanded wings, "Twere vain to ask: we know but this Thy path from grief and time Unto eternity and bliss, Mysterious and sublime! With God thou walkedst, and was not; And thought and fancy fail Further than this to paint thy lot, Or tell thy wond'rous tale. JESUS SEEN OF ANGELS. Turner. BEYOND the glittering, starry skies, Far as the eternal hills, There, in the boundless worlds of light, Immortal Angels, bright and fair, At his right hand, with golden harps, Hail, Prince! they cry, for ever hail! Whose unexampled love Moved thee to quit these glorious robes And royalties above. Whilst, here, our gracious Lord vouchsafed To suffer rude disdain, They cast their honours at his feet, And waited in his train. In all his toils and conflicts here, Their sov'reign they attend; When all the powers of hell combined Their wond'ring eyes beheld his tears As on the torturing cross he hung, Anon he bursts the gates of death,- They saw th' illustrious conqueror rise, They brought his chariot from above, To bear him to his throne; Clapp'd their triumphant wings, and cried, My soul the joyful triumph feels, THE ANGEL'S REPLY TO THE WOMEN AT THE SEPULCHRE. Doddridge. YE humble souls, that fear the Lord, Chase all your fears away; And bow with pleasure down to see, The place where Jesus lay. Thus low the Lord of Life was brought- Thus cold in death that bosom lay A moment give a loose to grief, With torrents from your eyes. Then dry your tears, and tune your songs, The Saviour lives again; Not all the bolts and bars of death The conqueror could detain. |