THE FAMILIST'S HYMN.

Father! to Thy suffering poor

Strength and grace and faith impart,

And with Thy own love restore

Comfort to the broken heart!

Oh, the failing ones confirm

With a holier strength of zeal!

Give Thou not the feeble worm

Helpless to the spoiler's heel!

Father! for Thy holy sake

We are spoiled and hunted thus;

Joyful, for Thy truth we take

Bonds and burthens unto us

Poor, and weak, and robbed of all,

Weary with our daily task,

That Thy truth may never fall

Through our weakness, Lord, we ask.

Round our fired and wasted homes

Flits the forest-bird unscared,

And at noon the wild beast comes

Where our frugal meal was shared;

For the song of praises there

Shrieks the crow the livelong day;

For the sound of evening prayer

Howls the evil beast of prey!

Sweet the songs we loved to sing

Underneath Thy holy sky;

Words and tones that used to bring

Tears of joy in every eye;

Dear the wrestling hours of prayer,

When we gathered knee to knee,

Blameless youth and hoary hair,

Bowed, O God, alone to Thee.

As Thine early children, Lord,

Shared their wealth and daily bread,

Even so, with one accord,

We, in love, each other fed.

Not with us the miser's hoard,

Not with us his grasping hand;

Equal round a common board,

Drew our meek and brother band!

Safe our quiet Eden lay

When the war-whoop stirred the land

And the Indian turned away

From our home his bloody hand.

Well that forest-ranger saw,

That the burthen and the curse

Of the white man's cruel law

Rested also upon us.

Torn apart, and driven forth

To our toiling hard and long,

Father! from the dust of earth

Lift we still our grateful song!

Grateful, that in bonds we share

In Thy love which maketh free;

Joyful, that the wrongs we bear,

Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee!

Grateful! that where'er we toil,—

By Wachuset's wooded side,

On Nantucket's sea-worn isle,

Or by wild Neponset's tide,—

Still, in spirit, we are near,

And our evening hymns, which rise

Separate and discordant here,

Meet and mingle in the skies!

Let the scoffer scorn and mock,

Let the proud and evil priest

Rob the needy of his flock,

For his wine-cup and his feast,—

Redden not Thy bolts in store

Through the blackness of Thy skies?

For the sighing of the poor

Wilt Thou not, at length, arise?

Worn and wasted, oh! how long

Shall thy trodden poor complain?

In Thy name they bear the wrong,

In Thy cause the bonds of pain!

Melt oppression's heart of steel,

Let the haughty priesthood see,

And their blinded followers feel,

That in us they mock at Thee!

In Thy time, O Lord of hosts,

Stretch abroad that hand to save

Which of old, on Egypt's coasts,

Smote apart the Red Sea's wave

Lead us from this evil land,

From the spoiler set us free,

And once more our gathered band,

Heart to heart, shall worship Thee!