Morning Star

POETRY.

For the Morning Star,

"PRAISE YE THE LORD."

"Oh! sing ye praises to the Lord,"
So sang the Bard of old.
Oh! sound his mighty name abroad,
Before the wondering world.
Till nations bow before His throne,
And every tribe its sovereign own
Sing praise to Him, whose word of might
This mighty frame sustains,
Who from the realms of endless night
Where gloomy chaos reigns,
Called forth the wondrous works we see,
And ordered all their harmony.
Sing praise to Him, for he ordains
The sun to rule the day,
And He those mighty orbs sustains
Which shine so far away
In fields of trackless ether, bright
With floods of never-ceasing light.
Sing praise to Him, for He doth hold
The floods within His hand;
Obedient to His word they rolled
O'er the polluted land;
But now they foam and dash in vain,
They may not sweep the earth again.
Sing praise to Him, for he bestows
The robe of vernal bloom,
He watches every leaf that grows
And marks each floweret's doom;
'Tis He who gives the summer rain,
And ripens all the autumn grain.
Sing praise to Him, ye mountains proud,
Amid your misty bowers,
And let your song be long and loud,
Ye lovely fields and flowers,
Let every flood lift up its voice,
And every murmuring stream rejoice!
Ye midnight stars, begin the song
On yon celestial plain,
And let the grateful earth prolong
The grand harmonious strain;
While Seraphs glow with brighter flame,
And Cherubs join the loud acclaim!

V. G. R.

From Howitt's Journal.