Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-rob'd innocence from heaven descend,
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn !
Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born !
See nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring,
With all the incense of the breathing spring;
See lofty Lebanon his head advance,
See nodding forests on the mountains dance,
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise,
And Carmel's flow'ry top perfume the skies!
Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers;
Prepare the way! a God, a God appears !
A God, a God! the vocal hills reply,
The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity.
Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies;
Sink down, ye mountains, and, ye valleys, rise!
With heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay!
Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give way!
The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold :
Hear him ye deaf! and all ye blind, behold!
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear !
From ev'ry face he wipes off ev'ry tear.
In adamantine chains shall death be bound,
And hell's grim tyrant feel th'eternal wound.
No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes.
Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thine eyes!
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day.
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor ev'ning Cynthia fill her silver horn;
But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: the light himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fix'd his word, his saving power remains :
Thy realm forever lasts, thine own Messiah reigns !
HYMN 440. P. M.
The dying Christian.
of heavenly flame,
O quit, this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life !
2 Hark! they whisper ! Angels say,
Sister spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ?
3 The world recedes-it disappears!-
Heaven opens to mine eyes! mine ears
With sounds seraphic ring;
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O grave! where is thy victory?
O death! where is thy sting?
HYMN 441. Eight, Eight and Six Metre.
CELESTIAL Father! Sire of man,
From whom our circling race began,
Form'd by thy plastic hand:
Low at thy feet we prostrate bow,
Receive and bless the ardent vow,
Made by thy high command.
2 Give each soft spirit, friend to love,
In walks of paradise who rove,
To bless the happy pair;
Propitious let them bither fly,
From bowers of bliss in yonder sky,
And banish pale-ey'd care.
3 Be witness, heaven and every power,
Who deign to mark the hallow'd hour,
Record the plighted faith;
Soft vigils keep, auspicious bend,
On every devious walk attend,
And strew with flow'rs their path.
4 May smiling pleasures, blooming joys,
Far hope sublim'd, which never cloys,
Gild every added day;
No dark suspicion rise between,
With blighting influence cloud the scene,
Chasing sweet peace away.
5 May mellowing love with friendship blend,
Esteem with lighted torch ascend,
And fan the sacred fire;
May young complacency improve,
Graft reason on the stock of love,
And joy serene inspire.
6 May chastity, with garland crown'd,
And honour's sacred charms, be found,
To guard the gentle pair.
May love unfeign'd their bosoms shield,
And conscious duty, pleasure yield,
Truth, spotless and sincere.
7 May sense and temper still preside,
Discretion all their actions guide,
Bright virtue still the base;
Fair candour spread a mutual veil,
As human errors shall assail,
With silent tears erase.
8 May each domestic joy arise,
And home-felt blessings may they prize,
Budding on peace serene.
May she each matron grace assume,
Around connubial life which bloom,
To gild the opening scene.
9 May he the lover still confess,
Still live to honour, shield and bless
The fair whom he receives;
For, when the ills of life surround,
In the torn breast inflict the wound,
Sweet amity relieves.
10 When gloomy pangs assault the soul,
When evil fills her poison'd bowl,
And passion swells the breast,
Then may soft reason brighter glow,
The balm of sapient pity flow,
And smile the storm to rest.
11 As they the path of life shall tread,
May confidence her banner spread,
And well taught judgment sway.
May friendship's sweetest joys abound,
And fair religion still be found,
To point the better way.
PATIENCE, O what a grace divine,
That leans upon its Father's hand,
As through the wilds of life we rove.
2 By patience we serenely bear
The troubles of our mortal state;
And wait contented our discharge,
Nor think our glory comes too late.
3 Though we in full sensation feel
The weight, the wounds our God ordains,
We smile amidst our heaviest woes,
And triumph in our sharpest pains.
4 O for this grace to aid us on,
And arm with fortitude the breast,
Till life's tumultuous voyage is o'er,
We reach the port of endless rest!
Sent from the God of peace and love!
5 Faith into vision shall be brought,
Hope shall in full enjoyment die;
And patience in possession end
In the bright world of bliss on high. RIPPON'S Coll.
HYMN 443. Sevens Metre.
Praise in Prosperity and Adversity.
PRAISE to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous Source of every joy,
Let thy praise our songs employ.
2 For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the garden yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use;
3 Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain,
Clouds that drop their fatt'ning dews,
Suns that temp'rate warmth diffuse;
4 All that spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land :
All that liberal autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores;
5 These to thee, our God, we owe,
Source, whence all our blessings flow;
And for these our souls shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.
6 Yet should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem, the opening ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop its green untimely fruit;
7 Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;
Though the sick'ning flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall;
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