Poor man without God's heav'nly glorious light By ev'ry lie is cheated to his woe,―― As hist'ry of the world doth fully show,―― His reason shrouded in the thickest night. But when the Truth beams on his purged sight, Instant are fled all wild'ring shapes below, Whose terrors waken'd all his spirit's throe: Thus chang'd the scene where shines the Gospel bright. Alas, my brother, art thou then so wise, Thou know'st the Gospel false? And dost thou choose To put to hazard yon, blue, blessed skies, And all, that God can give, wilt madly lose? Keen voice from one, now lost among the dead, I hear,――"Ah! whither has thy Reason fled?" 82. GOD IS ONE. That God is One by all his works is shown, Which unity of kind design display. Behold the distant, glorious orb of day; Behold the moon, and stars so thickly strown; God's goodness by their harmony is known: One Mind, most wise and good, bears boundless sway. Yet man deprav'd refuses to obey, Nor gains without electing love the crown. Thanks be to God for his redeeming love, Announc'd by Him, who hung upon the tree,―― His Son, who left his glorious seat above Our guilt t' atone; but who from death set free Lives on his throne. Then let us all adore The Father and the Lamb forevermore! 83. WHAT IS IT TO DIE? The when and how we know not, but to die Is but one fix'd and common, mortal lot; Yet death is wondrous to our human thought! We quit this earth and far away we fly―― But whither? Is it to the Sun on high, Our central light, that our freed soul is brought, If worthy of such place, without a blot; Or to more distant orb in yon blue sky, To some scarce-seen but faintly-twinkling star, Whose rays have travell'd journeys to our sight, Unmeasur'd by our leagues, they come so far? Yet sure at last to dwell in heav'n's own light,―― Our bodies rais'd from dust by Christ, our friend, In his own likeness,――ages without end! 84. CHURCHES OF PIEDMONT, 1851. Long since it was th' unrivall'd poet's prayer, That God, who governs all things here below, The ashes of his slaughter'd saints would sow O'er all the fields of Italy, so fair To sight, but desolate of truth and bare.―― But centuries with God may onward flow, Ere man his ripen'd purposes can know: We see the op'ning bud: the Alpine air Not now is fill'd with moans but praise of God; And peaceful churches meet in open day, Where once the vallies were all red with blood. With hopeful faith we will not cease to pray, That from its Alpine fount truth's mighty stream May flow, o'er all th' Italian fields to gleam! 85. THE LORD'S SUPPER.