Page images
PDF
EPUB

I weep thy lost friendship-but vain is my sorrow—
The dead is the darling of Judah no more;

Time's dream is advancing-God speed the glad morrow,
When love is unending-when sighing is o'er.

CONFIDENCE IN GOD.

O why art thou cast down my soul !
Say why, distrustful still,-
Or why, with vain impatience, roll
O'er scenes of future ill?

Let faith suppress each rising fear,
Each anxious doubt exclude;
Thy Maker's will hath placed thee here;
Thy Maker wise and good.

He to thy every trial knows
Its just restraint to give ;
Attentive to behold thy woes,
And faithful to relieve.

Though griefs unnumber'd throng thee round,
Still in thy God confide,

Whose finger marks the seas their bound,

And curbs the headlong tide.

And why art thou cast down my soul!
Say why, distrustful still,-

Or why, with vain impatience, roll
O'er scenes of future ill?

SPRING.

Pleasing spring again is here,
'Trees and fields in bloom appear;
Hark! the birds with artless lays
Warble the Creator's praise.
Where, in winter, all was snow,
Now the flowers in clusters grow;
And the corn, in green array,
Promises a harvest-day.

'S their Gat nan dée, "Mo ghaisgich féin thug buaidh; A's Israel ghéill—biodh ainm a Dhé gun luaidh ;" Ach Iudah ait gu'n seinn, 'n uair 's frasaich'deòir, "'Se Triath nan speur mo Thaice threun 's mo Threòir."

MUINGHINN ANN AN DIA.

C'ar son, Om' anam, tha thu trom!
A's an-earbsach do ghnàth,-

'S do smuaintean 'ruith neo-fhaighidneach
Air uilc tha fad o làimh ?

Deanadh do chreideamh tosd a chur

Air t'uile smuaintean bras;
'Se Dia a dh' òrduich thu bhi'n so,
An Dia 'ta glic a's maith.

A's cuiridh Esan crìoch 'na thrà,
Ri d' thrioblaid a's ri d' leòn ;
Oir bheirear leis fa'near do chaoidh,
A's saorar thu o bhròn.

Ged bhitheas do thrioblaidean mòr,
Earb thus' a ghnà á Dia ;

'Si 'làmh a chuireas crìoch roi 'n mhuir.
'S a thionndas stoirm gu fiath.

'S c'ar son a tha thu, anaim, trom,

A's an-earbsach do ghnà,

[ocr errors]

'S do smuaintean 'ruith neo-fhaighidneach,

Air uile tha fad o làimh ?

AN T-EARRACH.

Thainig a rìs an t-earrach àigh,

Tha 'choill 's na lòin a' fàs fo bhlàth;

Cluinn! na h-eoin le 'n ceileir sèimh

'Seinn cliù d'an Cruith'ear a th'air nèamh,

Tha 'n t-àit' bha 'n sneachd' sa gheamhradh 'còmh

Nis air fàs fo strachd do nedinein ;
'S am fochunn ùrar, bileach, uaine
'Gealltuinn gu'n tig là na buanadh.

[dach

What a change has taken place!
Emblem of the spring of grace;
How the soul, in winter, mourns
Till the Lord, the Sun, returns ;
Till the Spirit's gentle rain
Bids the heart revive again;
Then the stone is turned to flesh,
And each grace springs forth afresh.

Lord, afford a spring to me,
Let me feel like what I see;
Ah! my winter has been long,
Chill'd my hopes, and stopp'd my song:
Winter threaten'd to destroy
Faith, and love, and every joy;
If thy life was in the root,
Still I could not yield the fruit.

Speak, and by thy gracious voice
Make my drooping soul rejoice;
O beloved Saviour, haste,

Tell me all the storms are past:
On thy garden deign to smile,
Raise the plant, enrich the soil;
Soon thy presence will restore
Life to all was dead before.

Lord, I long to be at home,
Where these changes never come!
Where the saints no winter fear,
Where 'tis spring throughout the year:
How unlike this state below,

There the flowers unwithering blow;
There no chilling blasts annoy,
All is love, and bloom, and joy.*

*The above, as well as the "Covenanter's Dream," "Field Flowers," and "Verses supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk," have been translated by the late James Clerk, Blacksmith, from Kilbrandon, Argyleshire. Mr Clerk was a young man of superior literary attainments, and from the taste and ability he displayed in translating both prose and poetry, he gave great pro

Nach 'eil an caochladh th'ann an tràs'
Na shamhladh fior air earrach gràis?
Mar ni'n t-anam bròn 'na gheamhradh
Gus am pilll Dia a' ghrian d'a ionnsuidh ;
Gus an dean dealta tlàth nan grås
An cridh' ath-bheothachadh gu fàs :
'N sin iompaichear gu feòil a' chlach,
A's brùchdaidh ùr gach gràs a mach.
A Thighearna thoir m' earrach dhomhsa,
Mar a chi mi leig dhomh mho'chainn;
Ah! 'se mo gheamhradh-sa bha buan,
Chrìon mo dhòchas, stad mo dhuan :
An geamhradh bhagair sgrios gun bhàigh
Air sòlas, dòchas, agus gràdh ;
Do bheatha-sa 'san fhreumh ma bha
Cha tug mi toradh mach no blàth.

Labhair a nis gu bàigheil rium,
Slànuich m'anam tùrsach, trom;
O! Shlàn'fhir ionmhuinn amhairc orm,
Innis domh gu'n d'fhalbh an stoirm :
Air do lios neo-thorach seall,
Tog a bhlàithean, reamhraich fhonn ;
Bheir do ghnùis-sa 'chlisgeadh fàs
Do gach ni bha thun dol bàs.

Tha fadal orm gu bhi san àit'

Air nach bi caochladh tigh'nn gu bràch!
Far nach cuir an geamhradh fiamh,
Far an earrach fad na bliadhn':
Fonn an aoibhneis, tìr an àigh,
Far nach crìon 's nach searg am blàth;
Cha bhi cranntachd ann no fuachd,
Ach sòlas, gràdh, a's àilleachd nuadh.

mise of future usefulness. He died in Glasgow, after a short illness, on the 20th November, 1845; and, considering his christian walk and conversation, there is cause to hope that he is one of the blessed inhabitants of that glorious cuuntry,—

"Where the saints no winter fear,

Where 'tis spring throughout the year."

AFRICAN HOSPITALITY.*

The loud wind roared, the rain fell fast,
The white man yielded to the blast;
He sat him down beneath our tree,
For weary, sad and faint was he :
And Ah! no wife or mother's care,
For him the milk and corn prepare.

The storm is o'er, the tempest past,
And Mercy's voice has hush'd the blast;
The wind is heard in whispers low,
The white man far away must go ;-
But ever in his heart will bear
Remembrance of the Negro's care.

CHORUS.

The white man shall our pity share,
Alas! no wife or mother's care,
For him the milk or corn prepare.
Go white man, go; but with thee bear
The Negro's wish, the Negro's prayer,
Remembrance of a Negro's care.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

When, marshall'd on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,

From every host, from every gem;

Mungo Park, the African Traveller, says :-" About sunset, a woman, returning from the labours of the field observed me sitting under the shade of a tree where I intended to have passed the night, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into my situation; which being explained she told me to follow her. Having conducted me to her hut she lighted a lamp, spread a mat on the floor, and then presented me with a fine fish, half broiled. She then called the female part of her family to resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they were employed during a great part of the night. They soothed their labour by songs; one of which was extempore, and myself the subject of it." The above

« PreviousContinue »