They wander by the river side,
They rest in woodland bowers; Pure joy flows like the rippling tide
Through all the sunny hours. They climb the purple mountain crest,
They list the vesper call;— Ah me! gay life, then quiet rest;
Earth's shadows! darksome pall!
Yet, lo! seraphic vision breaks;—
That beauteous band I see, Where glory-dawn in gladness wakes;
Where all the ransomed be. High-seated in Immanuel's land,
'Yond shadow of the tomb; Safe-nurtured 'neath a Father's hand
Immortal youth doth bloom.
Oh! happy, happy hearted!
Who tread the golden floor; Oh! sinless, early parted!
Who live, to die no more. Bright land, where none may sever!
Where life is life for aye; Where, through the long forever,
No night shall veil the day.
Within the grand, orchestral throng
They harp, with crownèd brow; While sadness mingles with our song,
We at His footstool bow. Hail Christmas! light to weary eyes!
Light thou the years along; Till, all as one in Paradise,
We sing our Christmas song.
THE IMMIGRANT'S APPEAL.
Oh! ye who suffer ills untold
Upon the ground you tread! Whose children pine from want and cold,
And cry in vain for bread, Fold not your hands o'er cruel fate,
Nor weep with blinded eyes; Look onward! peace and plenty wait
Aneath our western skies.
I left my home in Erin's Isle,
By Shannon's glittering wave, I bade farewell a mother's smile,
A youthful husband's grave. Together with my orphan band
I crossed the raging sea, And sought and found in this bright land
A home for them and me.
Where riches may not rob the feast
Won by the hand of toil; Nor oust the man to feed the beast
Upon God's fertile soil. Where sterling worth may upright stand,
Where industry is blessed;— Yes! though I love my native land,
I love this land the best.