My God! thy servant save,
For gracious is thy name;
Thine arm can raise the sinking slave,
Oh! hear my humble claim.

To thee I lift my cries,
Thy sov'reign aid prepare;
For lo! the lordly despot tries
To sink me in despair.

Where shall my spirit hide?
Where from th' oppressor fly?
Fearless of God — his pow'r denied —
He dares thine arm defy.

Lo! God, my guardian, near,
Will all my foes control,
The Lord in mercy will appear,
And save my sinking soul.

At times my songs of love return and shine
Each as a flower of individual head,
Some white, some rosy, — some blood-stained and red, —
Marshalled in one long unimpeded line.
And these, with many tears and thoughts, I twine
To bloom about that fragrant body dead,
That over her mixed petals may be shed,
And spices and sweet incense I combine
To make her beauty more surpassing yet; —
And many months of passion, and pale days,
And nights torn in unutterable ways,
Are as strange flowers with rain of weeping wet, —

My God! my gracious God! to thee,
Urg'd by devouring foes, I flee,
To thee for mercy cry:
Oh! view me in th' unequal fight,
Oppress'd by numbers, aw'd by might;
Jehovah, God most high!

They wrest my words with vile design,
With scourges lash this flesh of mine,
And watch the steps I tread;
Shall daring guilt evade thy frown?
Ah no! — thy wrath shall cast them down,
To lie amidst the dead.

When to the Lord I lift my cry,
My foes dismay'd shall backward fly,
For God my cause maintains;

There are seasons when the fragrant soul within
Leaps, as a yearning child within the womb,
And shakes the fleshly fences of its tomb, —
Eager to mount, and rustle, and begin
A life delivered from the fangs of sin
And these slow fleshly fires that do consume: —
And then the sweet soul flings a strange perfume
From limbs that move and struggle, and we win
At times a wild intoxicating sense
Of the large life of deathland, — that shall be
One meadow of sweet ether with no fence,
One imperturbable unbounded sea

Strange is it how the hand of Death bestows
Upon the humblest head
A crown more sweet than garlands woven of rose,
How kingly are the dead!

To-day this girl laughs out from coral lips:
Within, the smooth teeth shine.
She climbs the hills, or watches the white ships
Upon the horizon-line.

How full of lovely life she is to-day!
How her clear laughter rings!
To-morrow she is dead and passed away:
No more the young voice sings.

And then how deep the awe that holds us bound!
The merry girl we knew

( " Oui, ce front, ce sourire. " )

That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair,
Beseem my child, who weeps and plays;
A heavenly spirit guards her ways,
From whom she stole that mixture rare.
Through all her features shining mild,
The poet sees an angel there,
The father sees a child.

And by their flame so pure and bright,
We see how lately those sweet eyes
Have wandered down from Paradise,

Lord! before thy throne we bend,
Lord! to thee our hearts ascend;
Servants, to our master true,
Lo! we yield thee homage due;
Children, to our sire we fly,
Abba, Father! hear our cry.

In the dust our knees we bow,
We are weak, but mighty thou;
Sore oppress'd, yet suppliant still,
We await thy holy will:
Galling chains confine us here,
When wilt thou, O God! appear?

From the skies, thy dwelling-place,
Send, Oh! send deliv'ring grace;
Turn and save us; — none below
Pause to hear our silent woe;

The dead work for our good with love beyond
The love they here attained:
Their spirits bid our spirits not despond;
They bid us climb the hill-tops they have gained.

They, could they speak to us, would evermore
Forbid our souls to weep:
They would command our hearts and thoughts to soar;
They would awaken us from hopeless sleep.

They, who have ever helped, know better now
What high gifts to bestow:
They breathe repose upon the weary brow;
At night their solemn whispers come and go.

And they are with us in the summer days;

To my complaint, O God! give heed,
Hide not thyself—thy help I need;
O hear and grant my pray'r!—
I'm toss'd and rack'd with sore distress,
For taunting foes my soul oppress,
And tempt me to despair.

Harass'd, tormented and dismay'd,
My very life a burden made,
I raise to thee my cry;
My soul is fill'd with pangs of dread,
O'erwhelm'd, I sink among the dead,
I pant, and gasp, and die.

Oh for the pinions of a dove,
To bear my wearied soul above
This dark and stormy way!
Lo! then I'd mount—I'd flee afar

There are strong powers of love that early years
Know little of. — All added force of being
Gives love new deeper tenderer eyes for seeing,
And love wins sweetness from a lifetime's tears.
All pangs and hopes and joys and trembling fears
Add strength to love. As life's black darkness grows
Love's firmer step through that murk darkness goes
And, dauntless, over the grave's brink Love peers.

There are strange powers of love that youthful days
Know little of. There is a love beside
Whose strength the passion of the ocean wide