They bear the burden of the snow—
They bear it with a patient grace,
The drooping trees! Yet well they know
A melting hour comes on apace.

Ah, if but Time, that crowns me white,
An equal clemency would show,
Then I, some soft, mild day or night,
Would drop the burden of the snow!

It is thine hour, America.
No word but thine can lift this curse;
It is thy moment to fulfill
Thine errand in the universe,
Ambassador of that great Will
That herds and holds the stars in space
And guides the human race.
Speakest of precedent or creed
When higher forces urge thy fate?
All man-made edicts, soon or late,
Must yield before the larger need
That spells the future's right.
Be thine the hand to lift the light,
Be thine the arm to strike the blow
That severs human hate from hate;
Be thine the word to start the flow

Fled are the summer hours of joy and love!
The brilliant season of delight is o'er
Alone mid leafless woods I silent rove
The voice so dear enchants these bowers no more!
Yet sweet the stillness of this calm retreat,
As toward the sunny bank I pensive stray,
The muse affords her consolations sweet,
And sooths with memory's charms my lonely way—
Here led by Flora o'er the pathless wild
I woo sweet Nature in her private haunts
The rarer flower which long neglected smiled
My curious eye unspeakably enchants—
Ev'n now the season our mild Autumn yields

I stopped to hear it clear,
The sound of water tinkling near,
Although I knew no dowser could
Turn hazel-fork in that beech-wood.

Then on the high tree-tops
With rising runs and jerks and stops
Like water stones break into bits
Flowed the cascade of long-tailed tits.

When Collin's tuneful pipe with soft'ning strains,
Fill'd with melodious sounds the neighb'ring plains;
The nightingale responsive, in the grove
Sung her sweet lay, and tun'd my heart to love:
But absent now from all that's to me dear,
A charm in Music I no longer hear.

Where are the joys the early seasons bring?
For herds the grass, for bees the flowers spring;
The black-birds sing on ev'ry blooming thorn,
And fresh'ning daisies ev'ry vale adorn:
In vain the spring for me adorns the plains,
While in my heart so cold a winter reigns.

Oh Lawd, I jes come from de fountain, Lawd,
Jes come from de fountain,
His name so sweet.

Po' sinnuh, do you love Jesus?
Yes, yes, I do love mah Jesus.
Sinnuh, do you love Jesus?
His name so sweet.

Class leader, do you love Jesus?

'Sidin' elder, do you love Jesus?

Don't you view dat ship a-come a-sailin'? Hallelujah.

Dat ship is heavy loaded, Hallelujah.

She neither reels nor totters, Hallelujah.

She is loaded wid-a bright angels, Hallelujah

Oh, how do you know dey are angels? Hallelujah.

I know dem by a de'r mournin', Hallelujah.

Oh, yonder comes my Jesus, Hallelujah

Oh, how do you know it is Jesus? Hallelujah.

I know him by-a his shinin', Hallelujah.

The beam of morning trembling
Stole o'er the mountain brook,
With timid ray resembling
Affection's early look.
Thus love begins—sweet morn of love!

The noon-tide ray ascended,
And o'er the valley's stream
Diffused a glow as splendid
As passion's riper dream.
Thus love expands—warm noon of love!

But evening came, o'ershading
The glories of the sky,
Like faith and fondness fading
From passion's altered eye.
Thus love declines—cold eve of love!

'Tis strange, profanely strange, but men will stand
Upon some spot of blighted happiness,
Where the Omnipotent's mysterious hand
Has fallen with disaster and distress,
And they, perchance, will question His just laws,
Wax grave, and sigh, and look demurely wise,
As if, poor fools! they could arraign the Cause,
And see with Wisdom's never-failing eyes!
But let them saunter o'er a battle-plain,
Still red and reeking from the recent strife,
Where, spurred by lust of conquest and of gain,
Relentless heels have trod out human life,

Rev. Francis Asbury:
Saturday night! How the forest wind raves!
Call in for prayers the people and slaves:
Ere breaks the Sabbath let Christians be grim—
What is that singing? What is that hymn?

Song from the Kitchen:
“Kitty Cazier! Save me a rose!
That in thy casement or bright bosom grows;
'Twould smell of thee, sweetheart so dear,
Out in the snowdrift, Kitty Cazier!”

Mr. Asbury:
Sister, is not that a hymn of the war?
Oh, this Rebellion! It's near and it's far!
Wesley's poor soldiers are hermits abhorred—