DR. JOHN D. GODMAN. 35 



And yet, how blest am I! 

 While myriad others lie 



In agony of fever or of pain, 



With parching tongue and burning eye, 



Or fiercely throbbing brain; 



My feeble frame, though spoiled of rest, 



Is not of comfort dispossest. 



My mind awake, looks up to Thee, 



Father of mercy! whose blest hand I see 



In all things acting for our good, 



Howe'er thy mercies be misunderstood. 



See where the waning moon 

 Slowly surmounts yon dark tree-tops, 

 Her light increases steadily, and soon 



The solemn night her stole of darkness drops: 

 Thus to my sinking soul, in hours of gloom, 

 The cheering beams of hope resplendent come, 

 Thus the thick clouds which sin and sorrow rear 

 Are changed to brightness, or swift disappear. 



Hark! that shrill note proclaims approaching day; 

 The distant east is streaked with lines of gray; 

 Faint warblings from the neighbouring groves arise, 

 The tuneful tribes salute the brightening skies, 

 Peace breathes around ; dim visions o'er me creep, 

 The weary night outwatched, thank God ! I too may sleep. 



LINES WRITTEN UNDER A FEELING OF THE 



IMMEDIATE APPROACH OF DEATH. 

 The damps of death are on my brow, 

 The chill is in my heart, 

 My blood has almost ceased to flow, 

 My hopes of life depart ; 



The valley and the shadow before me open wide, 

 But thou, Lord ! even there wilt be my guardian and my 

 guide, 



