Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 32 1832.pdf/18



A spirit on its way, Sceptred the earth to sway, From thee was sent: Now call'st thou back thine own— Hence is that radiance flown— To earth but lent.

Watching in breathless awe, The bright head bow'd we saw, Beneath Thy hand! Fill'd by one Hope, one Fear, Now o'er a brother's bier, Weeping we stand.

How hath he pass'd!—the Lord Of each deep bosom-chord, To meet thy sight, Unmantled and alone, On thy blest mercy thrown, O Infinite!

So, from his Harvest-Home, Must the tired peasant come; So, in our trust, Leader and king must yield The naked soul, reveal'd    To thee, All-Just!

The sword of many a fight— What then shall be its might? The lofty lay, That rush'd on eagle-wing— What shall its memory bring? What hope, what stay?

O Father! in that hour, When Earth, all succouring power Shall disavow; When spear, and shield, and crown, In faintness are cast down— Sustain us, Thou!

By Him, who bow'd to take The death-cup for our sake, The thorn, the rod; From whom the last dismay Was not to pass away— Aid us, O God!

Tremblers beside the grave, We call on Thee to save, Father divine! Hear, hear our suppliant breath, Keep us, in Life and Death, Thine, only Thine!