These forms possess, yea, even now,
A spark, a ray of life divine.

Rush on, O waters! proudly hurl
Thyself to roaring depths below,
And let the mists of ages curl,
And generations come and go.

But know, stupendous wonder, know,
Thy rocks would crumble, at the nod
Of Him, who lets thy waters flow;
Thy Maker, but our Friend and God.

Thy rocks _shall_ crumble, fall they must;
Thy waters, then, shall plunge no more,
But we shall rise, e'en from the dust,
To live upon another shore.

* * * * *

A SABBATH MORNING IN THE COUNTRY.

'Tis morning, and the meadows yet,
Are wet with gracious drops of dew.
Each blade of grass, and flow'r, is set
With sparkling gems of richest hue.
The sun, with rising glory, sheds
A radiance, that none divine,
Save those, who early leave their beds,
When glist'ning dew-drops briefly shine.