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HE first-born rose of vernal prime,

its bosom rare,
In gentle fighs of fragrant breath

Doth make its morning prayer.

The Summer bird, on raptured wing,

That cleaves the vaulted sky,
Doth to the great Creator pour

Its gushing minstrelsy.
Rich Autumn, with her fruitful hoard,

Her harvests ripening fair ;
The golden sheaf, and loaded wain,

Doth praise the Giver's care.

Each Winter, in its Sabbath rest,

Adores the King of Might;
And every snow-flake speaks of Him,

Who robes the earth in white.

Thou art His servant, O my soul,

By birth, by choice, by vow;
By bounties of each rolling year

Prove thine allegiance now.
Yea, prove it as each passing day

Unfolds its pinions fleet,
By deeds of love, by thoughts of prayer,

By strains of worship sweet.


Make this brief life a song of praise,

Where'er thy lot may
And learn the language here below
Of Heaven's eternity.





ON cottager, who weaves at her own


Pillow and bobbins all her little store,-
Content though mean, and cheerful if

not gay,

Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night,
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding and no wit
Receives no praise; but though her lot be such
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ;
And in that Charter reads with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the kies.
O happy peasant! O unhappy bard !
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward;
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come-
She never heard of half a mile from home-
He, lost in errors his vain heart prefers,
She, safe in the fimplicity of hers.




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HE Spirit breathes upon the Word,

And brings the truth to fight;
Precepts and promises afford

A sanctifying light.

A glory gilds the sacred page,

Majestic like the sun ;
It gives a light to every age,

It gives, but borrows none.

The hand that gave it still fupplies

The gracious light and heat;
His truths upon the nations rise,

They rise, but never set.

Let everlasting thanks be thine

For such a bright display,
As makes a world of darkness shine

With beams of heavenly day.

My soul rejoices to pursue,

The steps of Him I love,
Till glory breaks upon my view .

In brighter worlds above.





ERE is the spring whence waters flow,

To quench our heat of fin;
Here is the tree, where truth doth

To lead our lives therein.

Here is the Judge that stints the strife,

When men's devices fail ;
Here is the bread, that feeds the life,

Which death cannot affail.

The tidings of salvation dear,

Come to our ears from hence;
The fortress of our faith is here,

And shield of our defence.
Then be not like the Hog, that hath

A pearl at his desire ;
Yet takes more pleasure in the trough,

And wallowing in the mire.
Read not this book in


But with a single eye ;
Read not, but first desire God's grace

To understand thereby.
Stay still in faith, with this respect,

To fructify therein ;
That knowledge may bring this effect,

To mortify thy sin.

Then happy thou, in all thy life,

What so to thee befalls;
Yea, doubly happy shalt thou be,

When God, by death, thee calls.*




ND who is He? the vast, the awful

form, Girt with the whirlwind, sandald with

the storm ;
A western cloud around His limbs is

His crown a rainbow, and a fun His head.
To highest Heaven He lifts His kingly hand,
And treads at once the ocean and the land;
And hark! His voice amid the thunder's roar,
His dreadful voice, that time shall be no more !

Lo! cherub hands the golden courts prepare ;
Lo! thrones arise, and every faint is there;
Earth's utmost bounds confess their awful sway,
The mountains worship, and the isles obey !
Nor fun, nor moon, they need, nor day, nor

night, God is their temple, and the Lamb their light;

* These lines are to be found in the “Bishop's Bible ” of 1568.

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