Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By “Come, my soul, thou must be waking”Henry James Buckoll (1803–1871)
C
Now is breaking
O’er the earth another day:
Come, to Him who made this splendour,
See thou render
All thy feeble strength can pay.
Dimly burning
’Neath the sun their light grows pale;
So let all that sense delighted,
While benighted,
From God’s presence fade and fail.
Gladly waking,
Hail the sun’s enlivening light!
Plants, whose life mere sap doth nourish,
Rise and flourish
When he breaks the shades of night.
Ready burning
Be the incense of thy powers;—
For the night is safely ended;
God hath tended
With His care thy helpless hours.
Each endeavour,
When thine aim is good and true;
But that He may ever thwart thee,
And convert thee,
When thou evil wouldst pursue.
He unfoldeth
Every fault that lurks within;
Every stain of shame gloss’d over
Can discover,
And discern each deed of sin.
All our powers
Vain and brief, are borne away:
Time, my soul, thy ship is steering,
Onward veering,
To the gulf of death a prey.
Free from sorrow,
Pass away in slumber sweet:
And, releas’d from death’s dark sadness,
Rise in gladness,
That far brighter sun to greet.
His light refuse not,
But still His Spirit’s voice obey;
Soon shall joy thy brow be wreathing,
Splendour breathing
Fairer than the fairest day.
To Him address thee,
Who, like the sun, is good to all:
He gilds the mountain tops, the while
His gracious smile
Will on the humblest valley fall.
Walls and towers
Girt with flames thy God shall rear:
Angel legions to defend thee
Shall attend thee,
Hosts whom Satan’s self shall fear.