Verse > Anthologies > Alfred H. Miles, ed. > The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century
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Alfred H. Miles, ed.  The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century.  1907.
 
“Come, my soul, thou must be waking”
By Henry James Buckoll (1803–1871)
 
(Von Canitz)

COME, my soul, thou must be waking—
        Now is breaking
  O’er the earth another day:
Come, to Him who made this splendour,
        See thou render        5
  All thy feeble strength can pay.
 
From the stars thy course be learning;
        Dimly burning
  ’Neath the sun their light grows pale;
So let all that sense delighted,        10
        While benighted,
  From God’s presence fade and fail.
 
Lo! how all of breath partaking,
        Gladly waking,
  Hail the sun’s enlivening light!        15
Plants, whose life mere sap doth nourish,
        Rise and flourish
  When he breaks the shades of night.
 
Thou too hail the light returning;
        Ready burning        20
  Be the incense of thy powers;—
For the night is safely ended;
        God hath tended
  With His care thy helpless hours.
 
Pray that He may prosper ever        25
        Each endeavour,
  When thine aim is good and true;
But that He may ever thwart thee,
        And convert thee,
  When thou evil wouldst pursue.        30
 
Think that He thy ways beholdeth—
        He unfoldeth
  Every fault that lurks within;
Every stain of shame gloss’d over
        Can discover,        35
  And discern each deed of sin.
 
Fetter’d to the fleeting hours
        All our powers
  Vain and brief, are borne away:
Time, my soul, thy ship is steering,        40
        Onward veering,
  To the gulf of death a prey.
 
May’st thou then on life’s last morrow,
        Free from sorrow,
  Pass away in slumber sweet:        45
And, releas’d from death’s dark sadness,
        Rise in gladness,
  That far brighter sun to greet.
 
Only God’s free gifts abuse not,
        His light refuse not,        50
  But still His Spirit’s voice obey;
Soon shall joy thy brow be wreathing,
        Splendour breathing
  Fairer than the fairest day.
 
If aught of care this morn oppress thee,        55
        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.        60
 
Round the gifts His bounty showers,
        Walls and towers
  Girt with flames thy God shall rear:
Angel legions to defend thee
        Shall attend thee,        65
  Hosts whom Satan’s self shall fear.
 
 
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