‘Tis Spring, and Nature’s form is seen
Attired in robes of fairest hue;
Her mantle green, how bright its sheen.
And gemmed with drops of pearly dew.
Her voice of love — her voice of love,
How soft it streams from every hill!
How sweet the note that seems to float
From every murmuring, weeping rill!
There’s not a flower in rosy bower
That lifts its modest, blushing head,
And steals a kiss of dewy bliss
From Morning’s lip of glowing red—
There’s not a lovely saffron tint
That paints the couch of dying Day—
There’s not a star that beams afar,
And lights retiring Eve away—
There’s not a tone by Seraphs blown
To which the ear of Fancy listens—
There’s not a bead of early dew
That on the fragrant myrtle glistens—
There’s not a breeze that through the trees
Low sighs the requiem of day —
But worship brings, and praises sings
To Nature’s God in Nature’s way.
Her voice of love is heard above
Though mortal sense despise her tongue,
Her Maker’s ear bows down to hear
Her matin and her vesper song.
Though mortal eye may not descry
The native charms of her sweet face;
Her Maker’s eye is ever nigh,
To note each beauty and each grace.
by John Girardeau
When on the holy mount, a little space,
We saw his glory, and admired his grace.
Hear, ye that love Him, while the tale I tell,
or what that memorable hour befel.
Till every circumstance be so portrayed
On memory’s tablet, that it cannot fade.
Hear, ye that love Him ; for your suffering lot,
Throughout all time, by Him is not forgot —
For his name’s sake, we bear, and murmur not.
Nor space remote, nor distant ages, sever
Those links of love that bind our hearts forever.
by John Newton Brown
by Anne Bradstreet, 1642
There’s many a soul eternally undone
For sparing sin, because a little one.
But we are much deceiv’d; no sin is small,
That wounds so great a God, so dear a soul.
Yet say it were, the smallest pen-knife may
As well as sword or lance, dispatch and slay,
And shall so small a matter part and sever
Christ and thy soul? What! make you part for ever?
Or wilt thou stand on toys with him, when he
Deny’d himself in greatest things for thee?
Or will it be an ease in hell to think
How easily thy soul therein did sink?
Are Christ and hell for trifles sold and bought?
Strike souls with trembling, Lord, at such a thought!
By little sins belov’d, the soul is lost,
Unless such sins do great repentance cost.
by John Flavel, 1796
Bare seeds have no great beauty but inhum’d
That which they had is lost, and quite consumed;
They soon corrupt and grow more base by odds,
when dead and buried underneath the clods
It falls in baseness but at length doth rise,
In glory which delights the beholders eyes;
How great a difference hath a few days made
Betwixt it, in the bushel and the blade!
This lovely lively emblem aptly may
Type out the glorious resurrection day.
Wherein the saints that in dust do lie
Shall rise in glory, vigour, dignity.
With singing in that morning they arise
And dazzling glory; such as mortal eyes
Never viewed on Earth; The sparkling beauties here,
No more can equalize their splendour there
Than glimmering glow worms do the fairest star
That shines in Heaven, or the Stones that are
In every street, may competition hold
With glittering diamonds in rings of gold.
For unto Christ’s most glorious body they
Shall be conformed in glory at that day;
Whose lustre would should it on mortals fall
Transport a Stephen, and confound a Paul.
Tis now a course, a crazy house of clay?
But O! How dear do souls for lodging pay!
Few more than I, for thou, my soul hast been,
Within these tens of Kedar, cooped in.
Where with distempers clogged, thou makest thou moans,
And for deliverance, with tears and groans
Hast often said: cheer up, the time will be
When thou from all these troubles shall be free.
No jarring humours, cloudy vapours, Rheums,
Pains aches or whatever else consumes.
My days in greif while in the Christian race
Flesh lags behind and can’t keep equal pace
With the more equal spirit; none of these
Shall thencefore clogg thee or disturb thy ease.
Quiet Sunday morning
My family is snoring
Gentle breezes blow
Fish flies on the window
Hear the cackles of the Blue Jay
The skies are gray
But lift your spirits-it’s the Lord’s day
See His face shine
Feast and dine
And savour this rest day.
by Mark Nenadov