Thou art a day of mirth:
And, where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth.
Oh, let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven;
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to Heaven!
It is the custom at Donaldson Manor to close the Sabbath evening with
sacred music. Annie, at her father's request, played while we all sang
his favorite evening hymn, which I here transcribe.
EVENING HYMN.
Father! by Thy love and power,
Comes again the evening hour;
Light hath vanish'd, labors cease,
Weary creatures rest, in peace.
Those, whose genial dews distil
On the lowliest weed that grows
Father! guard our couch from ill,
Lull thy creatures to repose.
We to Thee ourselves resign,
Let our latest thoughts be Thine.
Saviour! to thy Father bear
This our feeble evening prayer;
Thou hast seen how oft to-day
We, like sheep, have gone astray;
Worldly thoughts and thoughts of pride,
Wishes to Thy cross untrue,
Secret faults and undescried
Meet Thy spirit-piercing view.
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