PRAYER FOR DIVINE MERCY.

OH blest were the accents of early creation,

When the Word of Jehovah came down from above; In the clods of the earth to infuse animation,

And wake their cold atoms to life and to love!

And mighty the tones which the firmament rended,
When, on wheels of the thunder, and wings of the wind,
By lightning, and hail, and thick darkness attended,
He utter'd on Sinai His laws to mankind.

And sweet was the voice of the First-born of heaven
(Though poor His apparel, though earthly His form),
Who said to the mourner, "Thy sins are forgiven !"
"Be whole" to the sick, and "Be still" to the storm.

O Judge of the world! when, arrayed in Thy glory,
Thy summons again shall be heard from on high;
While nature stands trembling and naked before Thee,
And waits on Thy sentence to live or to die;

When the heav'n shall fly fast from the sound of Thy thunder,
And the sun in Thy lightnings grow languid and pale,
And the sea yield her dead, and the tomb cleave asunder,—
In the hour of Thy terrors, let mercy prevail !

THE SECOND ADVENT.

THE Lord will come! the earth shall quake,
The hills their fixed seat forsake,
And, withering, from the vault of night
The stars withdraw their feeble light.

The Lord will come! but not the same
As once in lowly form He came,
A silent Lamb to slaughter led,
The bruis'd, the suffering, and the dead.

The Lord will come! a dreadful form,
With wreath of flame, and robe of storm;
On cherub wings, and wings of wind,
Anointed Judge of human-kind!

Can this be He, who wont to stray
A pilgrim on the world's highway,
By power oppress'd, and mock'd by pride?
O God! is this the Crucified?

Go, tyrants! to the rocks complain!
Go, seek the mountain's cleft in vain!
But faith, victorious o'er the tomb,
Shall sing for joy-the Lord is come!

THE HOLY TRINITY.

HOLY, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee;
Holy, holy, holy ! merciful and mighty!

God in three Persons, blessèd Trinity.

Holy, holy, holy! all the saints adore Thee,

Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea;
Cherubim and seraphim falling down before Thee,
Which wert, and art, and evermore shalt be.

Holy, holy, holy! though the darkness hide Thee,
Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory may not see ;

Only Thou art holy, there is none beside Thee,

Perfect in power, in love and purity.

Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!

All Thy works shall praise Thy name, in earth, and sky, and sea;

Holy, holy, holy! merciful and mighty;

God in three Persons, blessèd Trinity!

་

OTTIWELL HEGINBOTHAM.

OTTIWELL HEGINBOTHAM is the author of a volume of "Hymns Privately Printed,” London, 1799. His personal history is unknown.

THE YOUNG PERSON'S PRAYER.

HARK! 'tis your heavenly Father's call,
How soft the charming accents fall:
"Ask and receive, my son," He cries,
With loving heart and melting eyes.

Lord, I accept Thine offer'd grace,
I come to seek my Father's face,
Nor will He turn His ear away
Who taught my heart and lips to pray.

One thing I ask, and wilt Thou hear,
And grant my soul a gift so dear?
Wisdom, descending from above,
The sweetest token of Thy love.

Wisdom betimes to know the Lord,
To fear His name and keep His word;
To lead my feet in paths of truth,

And guide and guard my wandering youth.

Then shouldst Thou grant a length of days,
My life shall still proclaim Thy praise;
Or early death my soul convey

To realms of EVERLASTING day.

PRAISE TO GOD IN LIFE AND DEATH.

My soul shall praise Thee, O my God,

Through all my mortal days,

And to eternity prolong

Thy vast, Thy boundless praise.

In each bright hour of peace and hope,
Be this my sweet employ !
Devotion heightens all my bliss,
And sanctifies my joy.

When gloomy care or keen distress
Invades my throbbing breast,

My tongue shall learn to speak Thy praise,
And soothe my pains to rest.

Nor shall my tongue alone proclaim
The honours of my God;

My life, with all my active powers,
Shall spread Thy praise abroad.

And though these lips shall cease to move,
Though death shall close these eyes,
Yet shall my soul to nobler heights
Of joy and transport rise.

Then shall my powers in endless strains
Their grateful tribute pay:

The theme demands an angel's tongue,
And an eternal day.

THE GOD OF SEASONS.

GREAT God, let all our tuneful powers
Awake and sing Thy mighty name;
Thy hand rolls on our circling hours,

The hand from which our being came.

Seasons and moons, revolving round,

In beauteous order speak Thy praise; And years, with smiling mercy crown'd,

To Thee successive honours raise.

Each changing season on our souls
Its sweetest, kindest influence sheds;

And every period, as it rolls,

Showers countless blessings on our heads.

Our lives, our health, our friends, we owe
All to Thy vast unbounded love;
Ten thousand precious gifts below,
And hope of nobler joys above.

MRS. HEMANS.

FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE was born at Liverpool, on the 25th September, 1794. Her father was a Liverpool merchant. When his daughter was very young, he removed his family to Denbighshire, North Wales. The romantic nature of her early home, an old mansion by the sea-shore, near a chain of rocky hills, exercised a powerful influence on her fancy. In her ninth year, she composed verses, which were included in a volume of poems, which, at the age of fourteen, she gave to the world. In 1812, she published a second volume, entitled "Domestic Affections," and in the same year, married Captain Hemans. After some years, her husband removed to Italy, leaving her to undertake the upbringing of their five sons. She continued to devote herself to poetical composition, and her numerous lyrics are to be remarked for their genuine pathos and gracefulness, alike of expression and thought. After residing in different parts of Britain, she took up her abode in Dublin, where she died on the 16th May, 1835. Her works were collected by her sister, and published, with a memoir, in seven volumes, 8vo; Edinburgh, 1839.

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

CHILD, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve

Called Thy harvest-work to leave:
Pray, ere yet the dark hours be;
Lift the heart and bend the knee !

Traveller in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone ;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea:
Lift the heart and bend the knee !