PSALM THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH. BLEST Spectacle! Yon holy heights Therein are served no common rites, City of God! The dwelling-place Set ope to all of human kind! The latch of the devoted home He passes not, nor will despise,But to its altar-hearth doth come To bless the household sacrifice. But in the Progress of His State, And dwells in it, though made with hands. O Church! Once feeble, small, and mean, What glorious things are told of thee! And, in prophetic light foreseen, A world now crowds thy sanctuary. They who once knew Thee,-could they hope That thou a listening world shouldst teach? Chaldean, Tyrian, Ethiop, Men of each kindred, tribe, and speech? Thou a new life dost spread around! From stones dost sons and daughters call! With matron-honours art thou crowned! Thou art the mother of us all! Thine is the renovating spell! Soon will, amidst the Last Account, And they shall bless the natal mount Which swells and blooms when all things fade. While at its base,-I cannot sing Like the sweet choirs which crest that hill : Yet do its sides with echoes ring, And yield me each refreshing rill ! PSALM THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH. PARAPHRASE. WHAT rivers cleave this waste forlorn? The willows bear our stringed shells Which droop and murmur 'mong the reeds, No purposed strain of sorrow swells,- The foe may o'er us proudly vaunt, Though tears must flow! Nor can we find our own relief In sweeping yon suspended lyres,— In pensive thought, 'midst sobbing grief, Our song expires! O Zion, ne'er art thou forgot! Nor thou, Jerusalem, our home! Whate'er from memory we must blot! Where'er we roam ! Our touch shall lose its chording art, O Earth farewell! Thou doomed place,Our foeman's seat,-Thy judgments fall! Thy children perish! Vain Thou 'dst rase Our City's wall ! We'll sing again! Our bosom burns! Skill shall direct our new-strung hand,Earth's days are numbered! Now returns The Exile Band! PSALM THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SECOND. In reciting this Psalm, Francis of Assissium expired: the version is accommodated to the scene. Ан, 't is not now that I commence To pour to heaven my suppliant cry: Long have I proved Thy gentle care,— Before Thine eye: when inward stirred Little I mourn to leave this scene, No pity meets my soul's deep moan: As refuge, portion, Thee I 've known! But now I die,-with tenderest love Mark my last prayer, my latest woe, Let not my tempters greatly move My heart which trembles faint and low I'm free! I'm borne by saints above! Praise, Praise! Thy heavenly bounties flow! PSALM THE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH. HALLELUIA! We will raise To the Lord God songs of praise! Halleluia! We proclaim The high honours of His name! Where shall this our Hymn begin? Yet a temple made with hands What His homage first attracts ? How shall these our vows be paid? Man! thy breath is life and mind! |