32
Spring
By Newton
I
Bleak winter is subdued at length,
And forced to yield the day;
The sun has wasted all his strength,
And driven him away.
II
And now long-wish’d-for spring is come,
How alter’d is the scene!
The trees and shrubs are dress’d in bloom.
The earth array’d in green.
III
Where’er we tread, beneath our feet
The clust’ring flowers spring;
The artless birds in concerts sweet,
Invite our hearts to sing.
IV
But ah! in vain I strive to join,
Oppress’d with sin and doubt;
I feel ’tis winter still within,
Though all is spring without.
V
Oh! would my Saviour from on high
Break through these clouds and shine!
No creature then more bless’d than I,
No song more loud than mine.
VI
Till then no softly warbling thrush,
Nor cowslip’s sweet perfume,
Nor beauties of each painted bush,
Can dissipate my gloom.
VII
To Adam, soon as he transgress’d,
Thus Eden bloom’d in vain:
Not Paradise could give him rest,
Or sooth his heart-felt pain.
VIII
Yet here an emblem I perceive
Of what the Lord can do:
Dear Saviour, help me to believe,
That I may nourish too.
IX
Thy word can soon my hopes revive,
Can overcome my foes,
And make my languid graces thrive
And blossom like the rose.
33
Another
By Newton
I
Pleasing spring again is here;
Trees and fields in bloom appear:
Hark! the birds with artless lays,
Warble their Creator’s praise!
Where, in winter, all was snow,
Now the flow’rs in clusters grow,
And the corn, in green array,
Promises a harvest-day.
II
What a change has taken place!
Emblem of the spring of grace;
How the soul in winter mourns
Till the Lord, the Sun, returns—
Till the Spirit’s gentle rain
Bids the heart revive again;
Then the stone is turn’d to flesh,
And each grace springs forth afresh.
III
Lord, afford a spring to me!
Let me feel like what I see;
Ah! my winter has been long,
Chill’d my hopes and stopp’d my song!
Winter threaten’d to destroy
Faith and love and every joy;
If thy life was in the root,
Still I could not yield the fruit.
IV
Speak, and by thy gracious voice
Make my drooping soul rejoice;
O beloved Saviour haste,
Tell me all the storms are past!
On thy garden deign to smile,
Raise the plants, enrich the soil
Soon thy presence will restore
Life to what seem’d dead before.
V
Lord, I long to be at home,
Where these changes never come,
Where the saints no winter fear,
Where ’tis spring throughout the year:
How unlike this state below!
There the flow’rs unwith’ring blow;
There no chilling blasts annoy;
All is love and bloom and joy.
34
Summer Storms.20
By Newton
I
Though the morn may be serene—
Not a threat’ning cloud be seen,
Who can undertake to say
’Twill be pleasant all the day?
Tempests suddenly may rise,
Darkness overspread the skies,
Lightnings flash and thunders roar,
Ere a short-lived day be o’er.
II
Often thus the child of grace
Enters on his Christian race;
Guilt and fear are overborne,
’Tis with him a summer’s morn:
While his new-felt joys abound,
All things seem to smile around;
And he hopes it will be fair
All the day and all the year.
III
Should we warn him of a change
He would think the caution strange;
He no change or trouble fears
Till the gath’ring storm appears;21
Till dark clouds his sun conceal,
Till temptation’s power he feel;
Then he trembles and looks pale,
All his hopes and courage fail.
IV
But the wonder-working Lord
Soothes the tempest by his word;
Stills the thunder, stops the rain,
And his sun breaks forth again:
Soon the cloud again returns,
Now he joys, and now he mourns;
Oft his sky is overcast
Ere the day of life be past.
V
Tried believers too can say,
In the course of one short day,
Though the morning has been fair,
Proved a golden hour of pray’r,
Sin and Satan, long ere night,
Have their comforts put to flight;
Ah! what heart-felt peace and joy
Unexpected storms destroy!
VI
Dearest Saviour, call us soon
To thy high eternal noon;
Never there shall tempest rise,
To conceal thee from our eyes:
Satan shall no more deceive,
We no more thy Spirit grieve;
But, through cloudless, endless days,
Sound to golden harps thy praise.
35
Hay-Time
By Newton
I
The grass and flow’rs which clothe the field,
And look so green and gay,
Touch’d by the scythe, defenceless yield,
And fall and fade away.
II
Fit emblem of our mortal state!
Thus, in the Scripture glass,
The young, the strong, the wise, the great,
May see themselves but grass,
III
Ah! trust not to your fleeting breath,
Nor call your time your own;
Around you see the scythe of death
Is mowing thousands down.
IV
And you, who hitherto are spared,
Must shortly yield your lives;
Your wisdom is to be prepared
Before the stroke arrives.
V
The grass, when dead, revives no more;
You die to live again;
But oh! if death should prove the door
To everlasting pain!
VI
Lord, help us to obey thy call,
That from our sins set free,
When, like the grass, our bodies fall,
Our souls may spring to thee.
36
Harvest
By Newton
I
See the corn again in ear!
How the fields and valleys smile!
Harvest now is drawing near,
To repay the farmer’s toil.
Gracious Lord, secure the crop,
Satisfy the poor with food:
In thy mercy is our hope;
We have sinn’d, but thou art good.
II
While I view the plenteous grain,
As it ripens on the stalk,
May I not instruction gain
Helpful to my daily walk?
All this plenty of the field
Was produced from foreign seeds:
For the earth itself would yield
Only crops of useless weeds.
III
Though when newly sown it lay
Hid awhile beneath the ground,
(Some might think it thrown away,)
Now a large increase is found;
Though conceal’d, it was not lost;
Though it died, it lives again;
Eastern storms and nipping frosts
Have opposed its growth in vain.
IV
Let the praise be all the Lord’s,
As the benefit is ours.
He in season still affords
Kindly heat and gentle showers.
By his care the produce thrives,
Waving o’er the furrow’d lands;
And when harvest-time arrives,
Ready for the
