OH! THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S

TEAR!

Air.-HAYDN.

"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."-Psalm cxlvii. 3.

I.

OH! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here,

We could not fly to Thee.

The friends who in our sunshine live,

When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

II.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,

And even the hope that threw

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,

Is dimm'd and vanish'd too!

Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,

Did not thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting through the gloom
Our peace-branch from above?

Then Sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright
With more than Rapture's ray;

As Darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

Air.-AVISON.

I.

WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or Earth had profaned what was born for the.

skies.

Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it,

'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,

And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has

unchain'd it,

To water that Eden where first was its source! Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

II.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale, * Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,

Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,

And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow!

Oh! then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was

unknown

* This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 31, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after the sound of her marriage-bells seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection (particularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven"), which this very interesting girl had often heard during the summer.

And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in

dying,

Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own! Weep not for her,—in her spring-time she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are

unfurl'd,

And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

Air.-STEVENSON.

I.

THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

II.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,

* Pii orant tacitè.

Or when the stillness of the sea,

Even more than music, breathes of Thee!

III.

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne !
And the pale stars shall be, at night,

The only eyes that watch my rite.

IV.

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,

The glories of thy wondrous name.

V.

I'll read thy anger in the rack

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;

Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness breaking through!

VI.

There's nothing bright, above, below,

From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,

But in its light my soul can see

Some feature of thy Deity!