Words: Jane E. Hornblower, Poems (London: Simpkin, Marshall, 1843), pages 9–10.
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Oh! seize this hour, for day by day,
Death lies in ambush for his prey;
Fill it with virtuous toils and cares—
He spreads around his thousand snares.
He lurks in summer’s sickly breath,
The winter winds are winged with death,
And autumn, in her mellow stores,
Disease amidst her riches showers.
But thou, in every season brave,
Walk calmly o’er that hidden grave,
For Christian duties, aims divine,
To thee make every season shine.
The summer’s sickly air may bring
Disease and suffering on its wing,
But holy patience waits on thee,
To sweetly soothe thy misery.
Should pestilence, in autumn’s shade,
Sudden thy blooming health invade,
Unshrinking thou that dart shalt bear,
For God Himself is with thee there.
And should the winter’s fiercer hour
The bursting tempest on thee shower,
Amidst that elemental strife,
Calm shalt thou view eternal life.
The Christian heart shall know not fear,
Though death in every shape appear;
Amid the waves’ most awful form,
It sees a Father in the storm!