9

PETERBOROUGH. C. M. R. HARRISON.

414

1 How vain are all things here below!
How false, and yet how fair!
Each pleasure hath its poison too,
And ev'ry sweet a snare.

2 The brightest things below the sky
Give but a flatt'ring light;

We should suspect some danger nigh
Where we possess delight.

3 Our dearest joys, and nearest friends,
The partners of our blood,

How they divide our wavering minds,
And leave but half for God!

4 Dear Saviour, let Thy beauties be
My soul's eternal food;

And grace command my heart away
From all created good.