Hail, sober Autumn! thee I love,
Thy healthful breeze and clear blue sky;
And _more_ than flowers of Spring admire
Thy falling leaves of richer dye.
'Twas even thus when life was young,
I welcomed Autumn with delight;
Although I knew that with it came
The shorter day and lengthened night.
Let others pass October by,
Or dreary call its hours, or chill;
Let poets always sing of Spring,
My praise shall be of Autumn still.
And I have loved the setting sun,
E'en than his rising beams more dear;
'Tis fitting time for serious thought,
It is an hour for solemn prayer.
Before the evening closes in,
Or night's dark curtains round us fall,
See how o'er tree, and spire, and hill,
That setting sun illumines all.
So when my earthly race is run,
When called to bid this world adieu,
Like yonder cloudless orb I see,
May _my_ sun set in glory too.
Oct 8, 1852.
"MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND."
My times are in thy hand, my God!
And I rejoice that they are so;
My times are in thy hand, my God,
Whether it be for weal or woe.
My times are in thy hand, I know;
And if I'm washed in Jesus' blood,
Though dark my pathway here below,
It leads directly up to God.
Since all thy children chastening need,
And all _so called_ must feel the rod,
Why for exemption should I plead,
For am I not thy child, my God?
Ah why go mourning all the day,
Or why should I from trials shrink?
Though much of sorrow's in my cup,
The cup that I am called to drink.
'Tis needful medicine I know,
By the most skilful hand prepared,
Strictly proportioned to my wants,
There's _not a drop_ that can be spared.
Then why desponding, oh my soul,
Because of trials here below?
They're all appointed by my God,
My times are in thy hand, I know.
Jan. 18, 1863.