The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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They heard a Voice from Heaven, saying, Come up hither.” Rev. xi. 12.—Mrs. Sigourney.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
They heard a Voice from Heaven, saying, Come up hither.” Rev. xi. 12.—Mrs. Sigourney.
“Ye have a land of mist and shade,
Where spectres roam at will;
Dense clouds your mountain heights invade,
And damps your valleys chill;—
But ne'er may midnight care, or wo,
Eclipse our changeless ray;
‘Come hither,’ if ye seek to know
The bliss of perfect day.
Where spectres roam at will;
Dense clouds your mountain heights invade,
And damps your valleys chill;—
But ne'er may midnight care, or wo,
Eclipse our changeless ray;
‘Come hither,’ if ye seek to know
The bliss of perfect day.
“Doubt, like the Bohan-Upas, spreads
A blight where'er ye tread;
And Hope, a pensive mourner, sheds
The tear o'er harvests dead:
With us, no traitorous foe assails,
When Love her home would make;
An angel's welcome never fails;
‘Come,’ and that warmth partake.
A blight where'er ye tread;
And Hope, a pensive mourner, sheds
The tear o'er harvests dead:
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When Love her home would make;
An angel's welcome never fails;
‘Come,’ and that warmth partake.
“Time revels 'mid your dearest joys,
Death smites your brightest rose,
And Sin your bower of peace destroys;
Where will ye find repose?
Ye're wearied in your pilgrim race,
Sharp thorns your path infest;
‘Come hither,’ rise to our embrace,
And Christ shall give you rest.”
Death smites your brightest rose,
And Sin your bower of peace destroys;
Where will ye find repose?
Ye're wearied in your pilgrim race,
Sharp thorns your path infest;
‘Come hither,’ rise to our embrace,
And Christ shall give you rest.”
'Twas thus, at twilight's hallowed hour,
The angels' lay came down,
Like dews upon the sick'ning flower,
When droughts of summer frown:
How sweet, upon the ambient air,
Swelled out their music free!
O, when the pangs of death I bear,
Sing ye that song to me.
The angels' lay came down,
Like dews upon the sick'ning flower,
When droughts of summer frown:
How sweet, upon the ambient air,
Swelled out their music free!
O, when the pangs of death I bear,
Sing ye that song to me.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |