Classic Poem

E'en as the hart desires the streams
With ardour, when the sultry beams
Embrown the withering sod;
My captive soul longs to be free,
And pants, and is athirst for thee,
My Saviour, and my God.

She, with the sons of sin at strife,
Sighs for the fountain of her life,
And seeks her native place:
Ah! when glad tidings shall she hear,
When shall she yet again appear
Before the throne of grace?

Thro' dangerous days, and nights of fears,
My sustenance has been my tears,
While infidels are nigh:—
“And what an abject thing art thou,
Who! who is thy defender now,
And where's thy God?” they cry

Home at my heart, when this I hear,
I keep my thoughts in pensive pray'r,
Nor trust them to my tongue:
For oh! far other times I've known,
When trumpets were in triumph blown,
And festive songs were sung

When, at the van, with joy I rode,
And to the temple of my God
The multitude I brought:
There too I still have led the way,
And bade them praise, and bade them pray,
By my example taught

By sad solicitude opprest,
Why dost thou flag within my breast,
And yield to grief the rein?
Why, oh, my soul, do woes increase,
Where once serenity and peace
Held their divine domain?

Be constant to thyself and just,
Still in the Lord repose thy trust,
Resolv'd and yet resign'd:
Let thanks, let gratitude endure;
All but in praises art thou poor,
All else thy pow'r confin'd

When melancholy thoughts return,
My heart with holy zeal shall burn,
Thy mercies past to prize:
The land of Jordan, and thy hill,
O Hermon, I'll remember still,
And check my rising sighs

The depths in horrible despite,
Their dire alliances unite,
Prepar'd t' o'erwhelm my soul
Thy waves and storms afflict the skies,
And o'er me rage, and round me rise,
And all thy thunders roll.

Yet ever, both by night and day,
Thy loving-kindness wakes my lay,
While I thy praise proclaim:
'Tis that which makes the east more bright,
'Tis that illuminates the light,
And night is but a name

It is the Lord that makes me strong,
And him, whene'er I frame my song,
Alone, I will invoke,—
“Dost thou not hear thy servant's cry,
Dost thou forget me whilst I lie
Beneath the hostile yoke?”

With many a fierce opprobrious sound,
My soul, as with a sword, they wound,
And smite my bones in twain:
And those, by whom my heart is torn,
At once add cruelty to scorn,
To insolence, disdain.

For day by day, t' augment my woe,
Their infidelity they show,
And deeds of deepest die:—
“And what an abject thing art thou,
Who? who is thy defender now,
And where's thy God?” they cry

Ah! why does sad solicitude
Upon my bosom yet intrude
And gird my heart with pain?—
Why, O my soul, do woes increase,
Where once serenity and peace
Held their divine domain!

He bids thy countenance be bold,—
Confirm'd his saving health behold,
Nor dread th' avenger's rod:
In him thy confidence repose,
Tho' still ten thousand are thy foes,
Yet he is still thy God