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FOR THE SAME.

INCARNATE Word, who, wont to dwell
In lowly shape and cottage cell,
Didst not refuse a guest to be
At Cana's poor festivity:

0, when our soul from care is free,
Then, Saviour, may we think on Thee,
And seated at the festal board,
In Fancy's eye behold the Lord.

Then may we seem, in Fancy’s ear,
Thy manna-dropping tongue to hear,
And think,-even now, thy searching gaze
Each secret of our soul surveys!

So may such joy, chastised and pure,
Beyond the bounds of earth endure ;
Nor pleasure in the wounded mind
Shall leave a rankling sting behind.

FOR THE SAME. WHEN on her Maker's bosom The new-born earth was laid, And nature's opening blossom Its fairest bloom displayed; When all with fruit and flowers The laughing soil was dressed, And Eden's fragrant bowers Received their human guest;

No sin his face defiling,
The heir of Nature stood,
And God, benignly smiling,
Beheld that all was good.
Yet in that hour of blessing,
A single want was known;
A wish the heart distressing;
For Adam was alone.

O, God of pure affection,
By men and saints adored,

Who gavest thy protection
To Cana’s nuptial board,

May such thy bounties ever
To wedded love be shown,

And no rude hand dissever
Whom thou hast linked in one.

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. MATT. v1.11.

LoRD, whose love, in power excelling,
Washed the leper's stain away,

Jesus, from thy heavenly dwelling,
Hear us, help us, when we pray.

From the filth of vice and folly,
From infuriate passion’s rage,

Evil thoughts and hopes unholy,
Heedless youth and selfish age;

From the lusts whose deep pollutions
, Adam’s ancient taint disclose,
From the tempter's dark intrusions,
Restless doubt and blind repose;

From the miser's cursed treasure,
From the drunkard's jest obscene,

From the world, its pomp and pleasure,
Jesus, Master, make us clean.

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

WHEN through the torn sail the wild tempest is streaming,

When o'er the dark wave the red lightning is gleaming,

Nor hope lends a ray the poor seamen to cherish,

We fly to our Maker—‘Help, Lord, or we perish.’

O, Jesus, once tossed on the breast of the billow,

Aroused by the shriek of despair from thy pillow,

Now seated in glory, the mariner cherish,

Who cries in his danger—“Help, Lord, or we perish.’

And O, when the whirlwind of passion is raging,

When hell in our heart his wild warfare is waging,

Arise in thy strength thy redeemed to cherish,

Rebuke the destroyer—‘Help, Lord, or we perish.’

SEPTUAGES IMA SUNDAY.

THE God of Glory walks his round,
From day to day, from year to year,
And warns us each with awful sound,
“No longer stand ye idle here.

* Ye whose young cheeks are rosy bright," Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear, Waste not of hope the morning light, Ah, fools, why stand ye idle here?

“O, as the griefs ye would assuage
That wait on life's declining year,
Secure a blessing for your age,
And work your Maker's business here.

“And ye, whose locks of scanty gray
Foretell your latest travail near,
How swiftly fades your worthless day,
And stand ye yet so idle here?

* One hour remains, there is but one,
But many a shriek and many a tear
Through endless years the guilt must moan
Of moments lost and wasted here.”

O Thou, by all thy works adored,
To whom the sinner's soul is dear,
Recall us to thy vineyard, Lord,
And grant us grace to please thee here.

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