A bubble on the ocean's breast,
A glow-worm's feeble ray,
That loses all its brilliancy
Beneath the orb of day.
Can it be joyful, then, to find
That life is hastening fast?
Can it be joyful to reflect,
This year may be our last?
Look on the firmament above,
From south to northern pole:
Can we find there a resting-place
For the immortal soul?
* * * * *
Where can we search to find its home?
The still small voice in thee
Answers, as from the eternal throne,
"My own shall dwell with me."
And I have one year less to seek
An interest on high;
Am one year nearer to the time
When I myself must die!
And when that awful time will come,
No human tongue can say;
But, oh! how startling is the thought
That it may be to-day!
How shall my guilty spirit meet
The great, all-searching eye?
Conscious of my deficiencies,
As in the dust I lie.
How shall I join the ransom'd throng
Around the throne that stand,
And cast their crowns before thy feet,
Lord of the saintly band?
12th Mo. 6th, 1836. There are seasons in which I am favored to feel a quiet resignation, to spend and be spent in the service of Him who, even in my youthful days, has been pleased to visit me with the overshadowing of His mercy and love, and to require me to give up all my dearest secret idols, and every thing which exalts self against the government of the Prince of Peace.