forms they throw,
    Deep of the vivifying waters drink,
    Then rest in peace and coolness on the brink,
    While the soft zephyrs, and the fountain’s flow,
    Breathe their sweet lullaby in cadence low. 
    Oh! to the way-worn pilgrim’s closing eyes,
    How rare the beauty that about him lies! 
    Each leaf that quivers on the waving trees,
    Each wave that swells and murmurs in the breeze,
    Brings to his grateful heart a thrill of bliss,
    And wakes each nerve to life and happiness. 
    When day’s last flush had faded from the sky,
    And night’s calm glories rose upon the eye,
    Sweet hymns of rapture through the palm-trees broke,
    And the loud timbrels deep response awoke;
    Rich, full of melody the concert ran,
    Of praise to God, of gratitude in man,
    While, as at intervals, the music fell,
    Was heard, monotonous, the fountain’s swell,
    That in their rocky shrines, flowed murmuring there,
    And song and coolness shed along the air;
    Night mantled deeper, voices died away,
    The deep-toned timbrel ceased its thrilling sway;
    And there, beside, no other music gushing,
    Were heard the solitary fountains rushing,
    In melody their song around was shed,
    And lulled the sleepers on their verdant bed.”

    “COME OVER AND HELP US.”

    “Ye, on whom the glorious gospel,
      Shines with beams serenely bright,
    Pity the deluded nations,
      Wrapped in shades of dismal night;
    Ye, whose bosoms glow with rapture,
      At the precious hopes they bear;
    Ye, who know a Saviour’s mercy,
      Listen to our earnest prayer!

    See that race, deluded, blinded,
      Bending at yon horrid shrine;
    Madness pictured in their faces,
      Emblems of the frantic mind;
    They have never heard of Jesus,
      Never to th’ Eternal prayed;
    Paths of death and woe they’re treading,
      Christian!  Christian! come and aid!

    By that rending shriek of horror
      Issuing from the flaming pile,
    By the bursts of mirth that follow,
      By that Brahmin’s fiend-like smile
    By the infant’s piercing cry,
      Drowned in Ganges’ rolling wave;
    By the mother’s tearful eye,
      Friends of Jesus, come and save!

    By that pilgrim, weak and hoary,
      Wandering far from friends and home
    Vainly seeking endless glory
      At the false Mahomet’s tomb;
    By that blind, derided nation,
      Murderers of the Son of God,
    Christians, grant us our petition,
      Ere we lie beneath the sod!

    By the Afric’s hopes so wretched,
      Which at death’s approach shall fly
    By the scalding tears that trickle
      From the slave’s wild sunken eye
    By the terrors of that judgment,
      Which shall fix our final doom;
    Listen to our cry so earnest;—­
      Friends of Jesus, come, oh, come