And shall I join that prostrate throng,
In love's extatic heav'n-taught lays,
With pow'rs expanded, that new song,
Hymn to the Lamb's exalted praise!

Worthy art thou to take the book,

And loose the seals, and read therein, God's holy mysteries to unlock,

Worthy art thou, for thou wast slain.

Thou hast redeem'd us with thy blood,
From every nation, tongue and ken,
And made us Kings and Priests to God,
And we on earth with thee shall reign.

Myriads of angels stand around,

Their voices raise with loud acclaim, Address themselves to this new song, Ascribing glory to the Lamb.

Worthy the Lamb that once was slain,
Power and glory to receive,

Sinners resound the loud Amen!

For he has died, our souls to save!

From heav'n, earth, sea, bursts forth the sound Of blessing, honour, glory, power!

To him that sitteth on the throne,

And to the Lamb for evermore !

The elders worship, falling down,

The living creatures cry, Amen, Threefold the song, the substance one, God and the Lamb, theme without end.

In all these myriads is there one,

Who had on earth so much forgiven?

And shall I reach their highest tone

Of love to Jesus?

THIS IS HEAVEN ! ! !

AND when this breast to heave shall cease,
And heart, and lungs are hush'd to peace,
Some friendly hand the eye-lids close*,
And leave the clay to short repose*;

'Till on your knees be thanks exprest*,
According as the Lord has blest ;

This tongue, then mute, can now foretell,
Jesus shall have done all things well.

Should Sov'reign wisdom will it so,
That I in secret with him go,
Then he himself, will stand me by,
And ev'ry needful aid supply.

Upon his dear, his faithful breast,
My heart, and head, shall safely rest;
The flutt'ring pulse and bursting sigh,
He'll soothe with "Fear not, it is I."

Into his hands my spirit I'll breathe,
Inhaling life, from him in death:

"Though none should see, faith can foretell,

My Jesus shall do all things well.

But circumstance of ev'ry sort,

May be Imagination's sport,

Naught can to faith safe food afford,
But what is found in God's own word,

In Christ who is th' essential word,
The word inspir'd, that Word's record,
Here faith may roam and feed secure,
For ev'ry promise here is sure.

Tho' he deny my half-form'd pray'r,
Well may I cast on Him my care,
All things are mine, or life, or death,
1 his, he God's, Himself thus saith.

Should be in Jordan's topmost wave
Me plunge, I'll grace sufficient have,
Pass safely thro' the foaming deep,

As if the flood stood heap on heap.

* These circumstances took place, as here described, although surviving friends bad not then, any knowledge of this poem.

To leave for me that channel dry,
Which pleas'd imagination's eye;
Then let my will be sunk in thine,
It is enough, thyself art niue.
Be this, my only wish beside,
That God's great name be glorified,
What me concerns faith can foretell,
My Jesns shall do all things well.

The following Poems were found among some old papers, and are supposed to be original-they were written in the Island of Antigua shortly after Doctor Graham's death.

PART I.

Hail thou state of widowhood,
State of those that mourn to God;
Who from all our comforts torn,

Only live to pray and mourn.

Meanest of the number, I

For my dear companion sigh,

Patiently my loss deplore,

Mourn for one, that mourns no more.

Me my consort hath out-run,

Out of sight he quite is gone;
He his course has finish'd here,
First come to the sepulchre.

Following on with earnest haste,
"Till my mourning days are past,
I my partner's steps pursue,
I shall soon be happy too;

Find the ease for which I pant,
Gain the only good I want;
Quietly lay down my head,
Sink into my earthy bed.

There my flesh shall rest in hope,
'Till the quicken'd dust mount up;
When to glorious life I'll rise,
To meet my husband in the skies.

PART IL

Happy they who trust in Jesus,
Jesus turns our loss to gain;
Still his balmy mercies ease us,
Sweeten all our grief and pain.

When he calls our friends t' inherit,
All the glories of the blest;
He assures the widow'd spirit,
"Thou shall quickly be at rest.”

Tho' my flesh, and spirit languish,
Let me not too much complain;
Sure at last t'outlive my anguish;
Sure to find my friend again.

Ransom'd from a world of sorrow,
He to-day is taken home;

I shall be released to-morrow;
Come, my dear Redeemer, come.

From my sanctified distresses,

Now, or when thou wilt, receive, Grant with him in thine embraces, After all my deaths, to live.

PART III.

Hail holy, holy, holy Lord!
Mysterious three in one;

For ever be thy name ador'd,
Thy will for ever done.

For this alone on earth I wait,

To glorify my God;

And suffer since thou will'st the state

Of sacred widowhood.

And may I in thy strength fulfil,

My awful character;

And prove thine acceptable will,

And do thy pleasure here:

The children unto thee restore,

Whom thou to me hast giv'n;

And rule my house with all my pow'r,
And train them up for heav'n.

Be this my hospitable care,

The stranger to receive;
The burthen of thy Church to bear,
And all their wants relieve.

My labour of unwearied love,
With pleasure to repeat;
My faith unto thy saints to prove,
And gladly wash their feet.

The servant of thy servants bless,
With active earnest zeal ;
And ev'ry work of righteousness,
I shall with joy fulfil.

Wond'ring, I ask, where is the breast;
Struggling so late, and rack'd with pain,
The eyes that upward look'd for rest,
And dropt their weary lids again?

And pointed to a yawning tomb:

Darkness behind eclips'd the day,

And check'd his forward hopes of home.

'Twas not the searching pain within,

That fill'd the coward flesh with fear;

Nor consciousness of outward sin,

Nor sense of dissolution near.