 | The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry |  |
184
MORNING THOUGHTS.
Giver of light!—who point'st the glorious sun
His destin'd way, and callest every star
Forth by its name, and causest day and night
To know their order, and to speak thy praise,
All powerful One, to whom creation sings
Its early matin, may my humble prayer
Blend with that chorus, while the rising dawn
Dispels the shadows and the damps of night.
His destin'd way, and callest every star
Forth by its name, and causest day and night
To know their order, and to speak thy praise,
All powerful One, to whom creation sings
Its early matin, may my humble prayer
Blend with that chorus, while the rising dawn
Dispels the shadows and the damps of night.
Go forth my soul, on high devotion's wing,
And bear glad praises to thy Maker's ear,
Ere day awakes, or the rejoicing sun
Looks from his chamber on the blushing morn.
And bear glad praises to thy Maker's ear,
Ere day awakes, or the rejoicing sun
Looks from his chamber on the blushing morn.
Oh Thou, whose throne is in the circling heavens,
Where the veil'd seraphs stand, thou wilt not scorn
The incense of the heart, though feebly pour'd,
Or sometimes mix'd with tears, for thou dost know
My frame, and thou rememberest I am dust.
Where the veil'd seraphs stand, thou wilt not scorn
The incense of the heart, though feebly pour'd,
Or sometimes mix'd with tears, for thou dost know
My frame, and thou rememberest I am dust.
But yet thine hand did mould this mass of clay,
And thy breath quicken it, nor should I blush
To lift my face to thee, to speak thy name,
And call thee Father, had not sin so stain'd,
Marr'd, and defac'd thy work.
Yet hear my prayers,
And as a parent guides and guards a child
Oft wandering, yet belov'd, so guide thou me
This day.
From snares of youth, from hidden ills,
Fruitless resolves, and fancies roving wild,
From vanity and pride, and dark deceit,
Or whatsoever else might wake the sting
Of conscience, wound another's peace, or break
Thy holy law, save me this day, O God.
And thy breath quicken it, nor should I blush
To lift my face to thee, to speak thy name,
And call thee Father, had not sin so stain'd,
Marr'd, and defac'd thy work.
Yet hear my prayers,
And as a parent guides and guards a child
Oft wandering, yet belov'd, so guide thou me
This day.
185
Fruitless resolves, and fancies roving wild,
From vanity and pride, and dark deceit,
Or whatsoever else might wake the sting
Of conscience, wound another's peace, or break
Thy holy law, save me this day, O God.
And let a warning voice say to my soul,
The pure and watchful eye of the high Judge
Is on thy ways, and still a viewless pen
Moves, never weary, to record thy deeds,
Thy words, thy secret motives, on a page
Not perishable, which the flame that burns
The scorch'd and shrivel'd skies, shall so reveal,
That every eye may read.
Father, thou know'st
All my temptations, my adversities,
My weaknesses and errors; suit thy gifts
Unto my needs, and not to my deserts
Imperfect.
The pure and watchful eye of the high Judge
Is on thy ways, and still a viewless pen
Moves, never weary, to record thy deeds,
Thy words, thy secret motives, on a page
Not perishable, which the flame that burns
The scorch'd and shrivel'd skies, shall so reveal,
That every eye may read.
Father, thou know'st
All my temptations, my adversities,
My weaknesses and errors; suit thy gifts
Unto my needs, and not to my deserts
Imperfect.
Yet so guide me here on earth
That when I leave it, I may see thy face,
Where evil cannot come. So shall my prayer
Rise ceaseless to thee, and my soul shall rest
Upon thine arm of love, through every scene
Of this day's good or ill, or life or death.
That when I leave it, I may see thy face,
Where evil cannot come. So shall my prayer
Rise ceaseless to thee, and my soul shall rest
Upon thine arm of love, through every scene
Of this day's good or ill, or life or death.
And let my grateful strain, Giver of Good,
Rise with acceptance from this house of clay,
This brittle tenement, soon crush'd and broke;
Yea, bid me on the cold, dark flood of death,
Be joyful in thee,—bid me wake the harp
Of seraph rapture, hymning to the praise
Of Him who was, and is, and is to come,
When time shall be no more, and death shall die
Rise with acceptance from this house of clay,
This brittle tenement, soon crush'd and broke;
186
Be joyful in thee,—bid me wake the harp
Of seraph rapture, hymning to the praise
Of Him who was, and is, and is to come,
When time shall be no more, and death shall die
| The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry | |