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The Dead are like the stars by day Withdrawn from mortal eye, But not extinct, they hold their way In glory through the sky.

James Montgomery

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James Montgomery
Age: 82 †
Born: 1771
Born: November 4
Died: 1854
Died: April 30
Poet
Irvine
Ayrshire
Glory
Hold
Dead
Stars
Withdrawn
Eye
Extinct
Death
Mortal
Way
Mortals
Like
Sky

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Joys too exquisite to last, And yet more exquisite when past.
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There is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.
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Eagle of flowers! I see thee stand, And on the sun's noon-glory gaze With eye like his, thy lids expand, And fringe their disk with golden rays: Though fix'd on earth, in darkness rooted there, Light is thy element, thy dwelling air, Thy prospect heaven.
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Prayer moves the arm Which moves the world, And brings salvation down.
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When the good man yields his breath (For the good man never dies).
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Time is eternity begun.
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When to the cross I turn my eyes,And rest on Calvary,O Lamb of God, my sacrifice,I must remember Thee.
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Tis human actions paint the chart of time.
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To-morrow — oh, 'twill never be, If we should live a thousand years! Our time is all to-day, to-day, The same, though changed and while it flies With still small voice the moments say: To-day, to-day, be wise, be wise.
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Nature's prime favourites were the Pelicans High-fed, long-lived, and sociable and free.
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Gashed with honourable scars,Low in Glory's lap they lieThough they fell, they fell like stars,Streaming splendour through the sky.
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Fairest and best adorned is she Whose clothing is humility.
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Hymns should have unity, graduation and mutual dependence in the thoughts, a conscious progress, a sense of completeness and be easily understood.
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Two roses on one slender spray In sweet communion grew, Together hailed the morning ray And drank the evening dew.
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Bliss in possession will not last Remembered joys are never past.
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There is a world above, Where parting is unknown A whole eternity of love, Form'd for the good alone And faith beholds the dying here Translated to that happier sphere.
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The Dove, on silver pinions, winged her peaceful way.
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Dark-green and gemm'd with flowers of snow, With close uncrowded branches spread Not proudly high, nor meanly low, A graceful myrtle rear'd its head.
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Night is the time to weep,To wet with unseen tearsThose graves of memory where sleepThe joys of other years.
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While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue, But coyly linger'd on the thorn.
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