Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harpings of yore!
How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far away lands:
"The heavens are the work of Thy hands;
They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure;
Yea, they all shall wax old,--
But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy years are made sure;
They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure,--
They shall pass like a tale that is told."
Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days?
Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of men?
(Hist! hist! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine in His praise,
His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first; it was then
They lifted their eyes to His throne;
"They shall call on Me, 'Thou art our Father, our God, Thou alone!'
For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate ways;
I have found them a Ransom Divine;
I have loved them with love everlasting, the children of men;
I swear by Myself, they are Mine."
THE MORNING WATCH.
THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN."
The moon is bleached as white as wool,
And just dropping under;
Every star is gone but three,
And they hang far asunder,--
There's a sea-ghost all in gray,
A tall shape of wonder!
I am not satisfied with sleep,--
The night is not ended.
But look how the sea-ghost comes,
With wan skirts extended,
Stealing up in this weird hour,
When light and dark are blended.
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