 | A Small Collection of Hymns |  |
Jordan's Vale. A Parody.
When here, Urania, first we came,
And pitch'd our tents by Jordan's stream,
How calm the sky, how clear the day,
Our joy how sweet, how pure it's lay:
With sacred strains the temple rang,
And prophets list'ned as we sang;
All seem'd as angels might regale,
Amidst the tents of Jordan's vale.
And pitch'd our tents by Jordan's stream,
How calm the sky, how clear the day,
Our joy how sweet, how pure it's lay:
With sacred strains the temple rang,
And prophets list'ned as we sang;
All seem'd as angels might regale,
Amidst the tents of Jordan's vale.
But ah! since Israel's Lord is dead,
His Salem's shepherd and her head,
Her priests of origin divine,
No longer bear the altar's shrine;
The hope of Israel now is o'er,
And Zion's prophets chaunt no more;
Sad Rachael weeps, her children fail,
And quit the tents of Jordan's vale.
His Salem's shepherd and her head,
Her priests of origin divine,
No longer bear the altar's shrine;
The hope of Israel now is o'er,
And Zion's prophets chaunt no more;
Sad Rachael weeps, her children fail,
And quit the tents of Jordan's vale.
| A Small Collection of Hymns | |