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Is thy path lonely? fear it not, for He
GREAT author of the world, I bow
Beneath Thy chastening rod; And at Thy feet I lay me low,
My Father and my God!
From the same hand, all merciful,
Are blessings day by day;
But O! this vain, this frantic hope,
That burns within my breast, That fills my soul's extremest scope,
And will not let me rest ;
Grant Thou the power to overcome,
The patience to subdue ;
My feeble faith renew.
And pardon Thou my bosom's guilt,
That idols there should be ; Make me, O Lord, whate'er thou wilt,
So I forsake not Thee !
My Father! when around me spread,
I see the shadows of the tomb; And life's bright visions droop and fade,
And darkness veils my future doom ;
O, in that anguished hour I turn
With a still trusting heart to Thee! And holy thoughts still shine and burn
Amid that cold, sad destiny.
They fill my soul with heavenly light,
While all around is pain and wo;
Father, to drink Thy cup, I go!
Thy will be done! I will not fear
The fate provided by Thy love ;
I know that all is bright above.
The stars of heaven are shining on,
Though these frail eyes are dimmed with tears; And though the hopes of earth be gone,
Yet are not ours the immortal years ?
Father! forgive the heart that clings,
Thus trembling, to the things of time ;
There shall no doubts disturb its trust,
No sorrows dim celestial love; But these afflictions of the dust,
Like shadows of the night, remove.
That glorious life will well repay
This life of toil and care and wo; O Father! joyful on my way,
To drink Thy bitter cup, I go.
Behold the western evening light,
It melts in deepest gloom ;
Descending to the tomb.
The winds breathe low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;
When good men cease to be.
How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed;
To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast;
When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears ;
Whose eyes are bathed with tears.
And soon the morning's happier light
Its glories shall restore ;
Shall wake, to close no more.
[There is something exceedingly beautiful and touching in the circumstances of Mozart's death. After giving the last touch to his celebrated
Requiem,” he fell into a gentle and quiet slumber. Being awakened by the footsteps of his daughter, he called her to him, and said, “ My task is done; the Requiem quiem, is finished ; take these, my last notes, and sing with them the hymn of your sainted mother. Let me once more hear those tones which have been so long my solace and delight.” As she concluded the following stanzas, she dwelt for a moment on the low melancholy notes of the piece, and then, turning from the in