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I need not tell Thee who I am,

My misery or sin declare ;
Thyself hast called me by my name ;

Look on Thy hands, and read it there! But Who, I ask Thee, Who art Thou? Tell me Thy Name, and tell me now.

In vain Thou strugglest to get free,

I never will unloose my hold;
Art Thou the Man that died for me?

The secret of Thy love unfold.
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,
Tin I Thy Name, Thy Nature know.

Yield to me now, for I am weak,

But confident in self-despair ;
Speak to my heart, in blessings speak,

Be conquered by my instant prayer !
Speak, or Thou never hence shall move,
And tell me, if Thy Name is Love?

'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me!

I hear Thy whisper in my heart!
The morning breaks, the shadows flee ;

Pure universal Love Thou art !
To me, to all, Thy bowels move ;
Thy Nature, and thy Name, is Love !

My prayer hath power with God; the grace

Unspeakable I now receive ;
Through faith I see Thee face to face,

I see Thee face to face, and live :
In vain I have not wept and strove ;
Thy Nature, and thy Name, is Love.

I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art ;

Jesus, the feeble sinner's Friend !
Nor wilt Thou with the night depart,

But stay, and love me to the end !
Thy mercies never shall remove,
Thy Nature, and thy Name, is Love !

The Sun of Righteousness on me

Hath rose, with healing in His wings ;
Withered my nature's strength, from Thee

My soul its life and succour brings ;
My help is all laid up above ;
Thy Nature, and thy Name, is Love.

Contented now upon my thigh

I halt, till life's short journey end ;
All helplessness, all weakness, I

On Thee alone for strength depend;
Nor have I power from Thee to move ;
Thy Nature, and thy Name, is Love.

Lame as I am, I take the prey,

Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome ;
I leap for joy, pursue my way,

And, as a bounding hart, fly home!
Through all eternity to prove,
Thy Nature, and thy Name, is Love!

CATHOLIC LOVE.

W EARY of all this wordy strife,

V These notions, forms, and modes, and names, To Thee, the Way, the Truth, the Life, Whose love my simple heart inflames, Divinely taught, at last I fly, With Thee and Thine to live and die.

Forth from the midst of Babel brought,
Parties and sects I cast behind ;
Enlarged my heart, and free my thought,
Where'er the latent truth I find,
The latent truth with joy to own,
And bow to Jesu's name alone.

Redeemed by Thine almighty grace,
I taste my glorious liberty,
With open arms the world embrace,
But cleave to those who cleave to Thee;
But only in Thy saints delight,
Who walk with God in purest white.

One with the little flock I rest,
The members sound who hold the Head ;
The chosen few, with pardon blest,
And by the anointing Spirit led
Into the mind that was in Thee,
Into the depths of Deity.

My brethren, friends, and kinsmen these,
Who do my heavenly Father's will ;
Who aim at perfect holiness,
And all Thy counsels to fulfil,
Athirst to be whate'er Thou art,
And love their God with all their heart.

For these, howe'er in flesh disjoined,
Whate'er dispersed o'er earth abroad,
Unfeigned, unbounded love I find,
And constant as the life of God;
Fountain of life, from thence it sprung,
As pure, as even, and as strong.

Joined to the hidden church unknown
In this sure bond of perfectness,
Obscurely safe, I dwell alone,
And glory in th' uniting grace,
To me, to each believer, given,
To all Thy saints in earth and heaven.

CHARLES CHURCHILL.

Born 1731. Died 1764.

'TIS not the babbling of an idle world,

1 Where praise and censure are at random hurled, That can the meanest of my thoughts control, Or shake one settled purpose of my soul. Free and at large might their wild curses roam If all, if all, alas, were well at home.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

Born 1752. Died 1770.

MINSTREL'S ROUNDELAY.
O SING unto my roundelay,

O drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holy-day,
Like a running river be.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Black his locks as the winter night,

White his skin as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,

Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout,
O he lies by the willow-tree !

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing,

In the briard dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing,
To the nightmares as they go.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high ;

Whiter is my true love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true love's grave,

Shall the barren flowers be laid ;
Not one holy Saint to save
All the coldness of a maid !

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

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