LINES FOR MUSIC.

IMITATED FROM THE GERMAN WORDS TO A CANON FOR THREE VOICES, BY J. H. C. BOMHARDT.

November, 1837.

THE day of life is not all desolate;
Paternal Love o'er all presideth;
And though the doubting heart
May mourn when hopes depart,
Serenely Faith amid the storm abideth.
The darkest clouds of Fate

Are bright when Love confideth.

TO E. A. W.,

ON HER MARRIAGE.

Concord, N. H., August 22, 1831.

ABSENT!

We are not absent, dear.

Of all the happy throng you see, Not one in spirit is more near,

Or breathes a heartier wish, than we. So take our kiss, and with it share A brother's, sister's love and prayer.

May He who blessed your early lot

With all that makes a happy home, O'erwatch, with equal love, the spot That waits your life in years to come. Trust Him, let weal or woe betide; Trust; and what can you ask beside?

HYMN,

FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCH.

April, 1839.

Tune, LYONS.

WE rear not a temple, like Judah's of old,
Whose portals were marble, whose vaultings were gold;
No incense is lighted, no victims are slain,
No monarch kneels praying to hallow the fane.

More simple and lowly the walls that we raise,
And humbler the pomp of procession and praise,
Where the heart is the altar whence incense shall roll,
And Messiah the King who shall pray for the soul.

O Father, come in! but not in the cloud

Which filled the bright courts where thy chosen ones bowed; But come in that spirit of glory and grace,

Which beams on the soul and illumines the race.

O, come in the power of thy life-giving Word,
And reveal to each heart its Redeemer and Lord;
Till Faith bring the peace to the penitent given,
And Love fill the air with the fragrance of heaven.

236

HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCH.

The pomp of Moriah has long passed away,

And soon shall our frailer erection decay;

But the souls that are builded in worship and love
Shall be temples to God, everlasting above.

THANKSGIVING SONG.

November, 1840.

Tune, SANDY AND JENNY.

COME, uncles and cousins; come, nieces and aunts;
Come, nephews and brothers, no wonts and no cants:
Put business, and shopping, and school-books away;
The year has rolled round; it is Thanksgiving-day.

Come home from the college, ye ringlet-haired youth, Come home from your factories, Ann, Kate, and Ruth; From the anvil, the counter, the farm come away; Home, home, with you, home; it is Thanksgiving-day.

The table is spread, and the dinner is dressed;
The cooks and the mothers have all done their best:
No caliph of Bagdad e'er saw such display,
Or dreamed of a treat like our Thanksgiving-day.

Pies, puddings, and custards, pigs, oysters, and nuts,
Come forward and seize them, without ifs or buts;
Bring none of your slim, little appetites here;
Thanksgiving-day comes only once in a year.