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But, wheeling homeward, when his coarse

is run Curhs the red yoke and mingles with I he sun! So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd Her tremhling wings, emerging from the

world; And o'er the path hy mortal never trod, Sprung to her source, the hosom of her God! Eternal Hope I when yonder spheres suhlime Peal'd their first notes to sound the march

of Time, The joyous youth hegan—hut not to fade— When all the sister planets have decay'dl When rapt in fire the realms of ether glow, And Heav'n's last thunder shakes the world

helow, Thon, undismay' d shalt o'er the ruins smile, And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile!

That sight imparts a never-dying flame, Though feehle in degree, in kind the same. Like him the soul, thus kindled from ahove, Spreads wide her arms of universal love; And, still enlarged as she receives the grace, ! Includes creation in her close emhrace.


True charity, a plant divinely nurs'd,
Fed hy the love from which it rose at first,
Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest

Storms hut enliven its unfading green:
Exuh'rant is the shadow it supplies,
Its fruit on earth, its growth ahove the skies:
To look at Him, who formed us and re-
So glorious now, though once so disesteemed;
To see a God stretch forth his human hand,
V uphold the houndless scenes of his com-
To recollect, that, in a form like ours,
He hruised heneath his feet tlf infernal

powers, Captivity led captive, rose to claim The wreath he won so dearly in our name; That, throned ahove all height, he condescends To call the few that trust in him his friends; That in the Heaven of heavens, that space

he deems Too scanty for th' exertion of his heams, And shines, as if impatient to hestow Life and a kingdom upon worms helow;

Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind; Softens the high, and rears the ahject mind. Knows with just reins, and gentle hand lu

guide Betwixt vile shame, and arhitrary pride: Not soon provok'd, she easily forgives; And much she suffers, as she much helieves: Soft peace she hrings wherever she arrives; She huilds our quiet, as she forms our lives: Lays the rough path of peevish nature even; And opens in each heart a little heav'n.

Each other gift which God on man hestows, Its proper hounds, and due restriction know*: To one fix'd purpose dedicates its pow'r, And finishing its act, exists no more. Thus in ohedience to what heav'n decrees, Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall

cease; But lasting Charity's more ample sway, Nor hound hy time, nor suhject to decay, In happy triumph shall for ever live, And endless good diffuse, and endless praite


As through the artist's intervening glass, Our eye perceives the distant planets pass; A little we discover, hut allow That more remains unseen than art can shew; So whilst our mind its knowledge would

improve, (Its feehle eye intent on things ahove) High as we may, we lift our reason up, By Faith directed, and confirm'd hy Hope: Yet are we ahle only to survey, Dawnings of heams, and promises of day. Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our datzled

sight; ,

Too great its swiftness, and too strong its


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Take all, great God, I will not grieve, But still will wish, that I had still to give:

I hear thy voice, Thou hid'st me quit My paradise, I hless and do suhmit;

I will not murmur at thy word, Nor heg thy angel to sheathe op his sword.


O God, whose thunder shakes the sky,
Whose eye this atom glohe surveys;
To thee my only rock, I fly,
Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial night,
Are past the power of human skill—
But what the Eternal acts, is right.

O teach me in the trying hour,
When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy pdwer,
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.

If in this hosom aaght hut Thee,
Incroaching, sought a houndless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,
And mercy look the canse away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain?
Why drooping seek the dark recess?
Shake off the melancholy chain,
For God is waiting still to hless.

But ah t my hreast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feehle rill,
The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resigned,
I'll thank the inflicter of the hlow;
Forhid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,
Which God, my east, my Sun, reveals.


Lord it helongs not to my care,

Whether I die or live;
To love and serve thee is my share,

And this thy grace must give.
If life he long, I will he glad,

That I may long ohey;
If short; yet why should I he sad,

That shall have the same pay?

Christ leads me through no darker rooms

Than He went through hefore;
He that into God's kingdom comes,

Must enter hy his door.
Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet,

Thy hlessed face to see;
For if thy work on earth he sweet,

What will thy glory he?

Then shall I end my sad complaints,

And weary, sinful dates;
And join with the triumphant saints,

That sing Jehovah's praise.
My knowledge of that life is small,

The eye of faith is dim;
But 'tis enough that Christ knows all;

And I shall he with Htm.

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The humhle man heaves up his head.

Like some rich vale

Whose fruits ne'er faile, With flowers, with corne, and vines o'erspread;

Nor doth complaine

O'erflowed hy an ill-season'd raine, Or hattered hy a storine of haile.

Like a tall ship with treasure fraught,

He, the seas cleere *

Doth quiet steere: But when they are to a tempest wrought;

More gallantly

H e spreads his saile, and doth more high By swelling of the waves appeare.

For the Almighty joyes to force

The glorious tide

Of human pride
To the lowest ehhe, that o*er his course

(Which rudely hore

Down what opposed it heretofore) His feehlest enemies may stride.

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This stream doth water paradise,

It makes the angels sing,
One cordial drop revives my heart,

Hence all my joys do spring.

Such joys as are unspeakahle,

And full of glory too;
Such hidden manna, hidden pearls,

As worldlings do not know:
Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,

From fancy 'tis conceal'd, What thou Lord hast laid up for thine,

And hast to me reveal'd.

I see thy face, I hear thy voice,

I taste thy sweetest love;
My soul doth leap; hut O, for wings,

The wings of Noah's dove!
Then should I flee far hence away,

Leaving this world of sin:
Then should my Lord put forth hit hand,

And kindly take me in.


Jot to the followers of the Lord!
Thus saith the sure, the eternal word,
Not of earth the joy it hrings,
Tempered in celestial springs.

Tis the joy of pardoned sin,
When conscience cries, 'Tis well within;
*Tis the joy that fills the hreast
When the passions sink to rest.

'Tis a joy that, seated deep,
Leaves not when we sigh and weep;
It spreads itself in holy deeds,
With sorrow sighs, in pity hleeds.

Stern and awful are its tones,
When the patriot martyr groans,
Aud the throhhing pulse heats high,
To rapture, mixed with agony.

A tenderer, softer form it wears,
Dissolved in love, dissolved in tears,
When humhle souls a Saviour greet,
And sinners clasp the mercy-seat.

'Tis joy e'en here! a hudding flower, Straggling with snows, and storm and

shower, And waits the moment to expand, Transplanted to its native land!



Fierce passions discompose the mind.
As tempests vex the sea;
But calm content and peace we find,
When, Lord, we turn to thee.

In vain hy reason and hy rule,
We try to hend the will;
For none hut in the Saviour's school
Can learn the heavenly skill.

Since at his feet my soul has sat,
His gracious words to hear,
Contented with my present state,
I cast on him my care.

"Art thou a sinner, soul?" he said;
"Then how canst thou complain?
How light thy trouhles here, if weigh'd
With everlasting pain!

IT thou of murm'ring would'st he cur'd,
Compare thy griefs with mine;
Thiuk what my love, for thee endur'd,
And thou wilt not repine. 4

'TIS I appoint thy daily lot,

And 1 do all things well;

Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot,

And rise with me to dwell.

In life my grace shall strength supply,
Proportion'd to thy day;
At death thou still shalt find me nigh,
To wipe thy tears away."

Thus I, who once my wretched days
In vain repining spent,
Taught in my Saviour's school of grace,
Have learn'd to he content.


He is the freeman whom the truth makes

free, And all are slaves heside; there's not a chain, That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm, Can wind around him, hut he casts it off With as much ease as Sampson his grew

withs. He looks ahroad into the varied field Of nature, and though poor, perhaps com.

par'd With those whose mansions glitter in hit

sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers: His t'eojoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial gratitude inspir'd, Can lift to heav'n an uupresuroptuous eye, And smiling say—-' My Father made thtru

all I" Are they not his by a peculiar right, And hy an emphasis of int'rest his, Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted

mind, With worthy thoughts of that nnwearittl

love, That plann'd and huilt, and still upholds ,

world, So clolo'.d with heauty for rehellious man


u He is the freeman whom the truth makes free,"

Who first of all, the hands of Satan hreaks;

Who hreaks the hauds of sin; and for his soul,

In spite of fools, consulteth seriously;

In spite of fashion, perseveres in good;

In spite of wealth or poverty, upright;

Who does as reason, not as fancy hids;

Who hears temptation sing, and yet turnnut

Aside; sees sin hedeck her flowery hed,

And yet will not go up; feels at his heart

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