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For many an evil voice is near

To chide my woe, and nock my fear,
And silent Mémory weeps alone,
O'er hours of peace and gladness flown.

For I have walked the happy round
That circles Sion's holy ground,
And gladly swell'd the choral lays
That hymn'd my great REDEEMER's praise,
What t ne the hallow'd arch along
Responsive swell'd the solemn song.

Ah! why, by passing clouds oppress'd,
Should vexing thoughts distract thy breast?
Turn, turn to Him, in every pain,
Whom never suppliant sought in vain ;
Thy strength, in joy's ecstatic day,
Thy hope, when joy has pass'd away..


GOD! my heart within me faints,
And pours in sighs her deep complaints..
Yet many a thought shall linger still
By Carmel's height and Tabor's rill,
The Olive Mount my SAVIOUR trod,
The rocks that saw and own'd their GOD

'The morning beam that wakes the skies, Shall see my matin incense rise;.

The ev'ning seraphs, as they rove,
Shall catch the notes of joy and love,
And sullen night, with drowsy ear,
The still repeated anthem hear.

My soul shall cry to Thee, O LORD,,
To Thee, supreme incarnate WORD,
My rock and fortress, shield and friend,
CREATOR, SAVIOUR, source and end;
And Thou wilt hear Thy servant's prayer,
Though Death and Darkness speak despair.

Ah! why, by passing clouds oppress'd,
Should vexing thoughts distract thy breast?
Turn, turn to Him in every pain,
Whom never suppliant sought in vain;
Thy strength, in joy's ecstatic c'ay,
Thy hope, when joy has pass'd away.

PSALM XLII.-Dr. Cotton.

WITH fierce desire the hunted hart
Explores the cooling stream;
Mine is a passion stronger far,

And mine a nobler theme.

Yes, with superior fervors, LORD,
I thirst to see Thy face;
My languid soul would fain approach
The fountains of Thy grace.

Oh! the great plenty of Thy house,
The rich refreshments there!
To live an exile from Thy courts
O'erwhelms me with despair.

In worship when I join'd Thy saints,
How sweetly pass'd my days!
Prayer my divine employment then,
And all my pleasure praise.

But now I'm lost to every joy,
Because detain'd from Thee;
Those golden periods ne'er return,
Or ne'er return to me.

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Yet, O my soul, why thus deprest,

And whence this anxious fear? Let former favours fix thy trust, And check the rising tear.

When darkness lowr'd, when sorrows rose,
And press'd on every
Did not the LORD sustain thy steps,
And was not GOD thy guide?

Affliction is a stormy deep,

Where wave resounds to wave ; Tho' o'er my head the billows roll, I know the LORD can save.


Perhaps, before the morning dawns,
He'll reinstate my peace;
For He, who bade the tempest roar,
Can bid, the tempest cease.

In the dark watches of the night

I'll count His mercies o'er ;
I'll praise Him for ten thousand past,
And humbly sue for more.

Then, O my soul, why thus deprest,
And whence this anxious fear?
Let former favours fix thy trust,
And check the rising tear.

Here will I rest, and build my hopes,
Nor murmur at His rod;

He's more than all the world to me,
My health, my life, my God!


WITH. musings sad my spirit teems,
My harp is strung to saddest themes;
O mortal, hear its notes complain,
Nor shun a dark but faithful strain,
Whose simple length, tho' short, shall span
The mournful history of man.

Behold, where prosp❜rous and elate
The rich upbuilds his haughty state,
Adds field to field, and tower to tower,
And flames, the meteor of an hour,-
While poor, neglected, and forlorn,
The just in humble silence mourn.

Yet envy not that pomp, ye just,
Which leans upon a base of dust;
For O, when Death, decreed, shall come
To shake the proud man's lofty dome,
Will proffer'd wealth avail to save,
Or ransoms bribe the ruthless grave?

Lo, stretch'd before his aching eyes,
A child, a wife, a brother lies:
His eager anxious cares in vain
The fleeting spirit would retain ;
The form he clasps, resigns its breath,
And fills his blank embrace with death!

Again it strikes,-a second blow,—
The man of pride himself is low!
Shall wealth, shall state attend the dead?
'Tis only to his clay-cold bed;

Carest by crouds, by hundreds known,
He fills the narrow house alone.

The funeral pomp returning słów-
The fading pageantry of woe-
gorgeous tomb-the solemn toll-
Can these delight the parted soul?
Or will remember'd grandeur cheer
The shivering, lonely traveller?

And when that breathless wasting clay
Again shall feel the life-blood play;
When on the cell where dark it lies
A morn of piercing light shall rise;.
Ah, whither then will guilt retire,.
Or how sustain the eyes of fire?

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