"
* * * * *
"The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."
Not yet, not yet, O Saviour,
Although thou callest me
In life's unclouded morning
Why should I follow thee?
The world and all its pleasures
Outspread before me lie,
When I have grasped its treasures
I'll hear thee, by and by.
Not yet, not yet, O Saviour!--
True, thou hast called me long,
Yet, almost more than ever,
I love the world's glad song!
Say not the years are hasting
With rapid footsteps by,--
Say not life's sands are wasting,
But call me by and by!
Not yet, not yet, O Saviour!
I have no time to stay;
The goal tow'rd which I hasten
Is now not far away.
Another day--and haply
The triumph I shall see,
And grasp my crown of vic'try,--
Then, I will call for thee!
* * *
No more, no more, O sinner,
The Saviour's call is o'er!
The door is shut forever,
To be unclosed no more!--
So late the hour and lonely,
So dark the night and drear,
And He who called thee only
To bless thee, will not hear!
Past is the harvest-gladness,
The summer-bloom is o'er,
Thy sun has set in sadness,
To rise-oh, nevermore!
So late the hour and lonely,
So dark the night and drear,
And He who called thee only
To bless thee, will not hear!
MARGUERITE
Lightly the shadows
Play through the trees,
Green are the meadows,
Soft is the breeze,--
June's early roses,
Pensive and sweet,
Droop where reposes
Lost Marguerite!
Meeting thee never
In the green bowers,--
Missing thee ever
'Mid the fresh flowers,--
Till the long hours die--
Hours once so fleet--
Hopelessly wait I,
Lost Marguerite!
Day has grown weary
In the blue sky,
Summer is dreary,
Melodies die;
Lowly the willow
Droopeth to meet
And kiss thy pillow,
Lost Marguerite!
Flower the fairest
Of sweet summer time,
Rosebud the rarest
Plucked ere its prime,
Mine to weep ever
Where the wares beat,
Meeting thee never,
Lost Marguerite!
"COME UNTO ME.
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