LIII.

CORRECTION.

ORD, as a tender mother day by day
Weans the weak babe fhe loves, left it
fhould pine,

So wean us, Lord, fo make us wholly
Thine,

Left in our feebleness we start away

From Thy loved chaftening; for we could not bear
The fudden vifion of ourfelves and Thee,

Or learn at once how vain our bright hopes be.
Then be our earthly weakness, Lord, Thy care,
And e'en in wounding heal, in breaking spare.

BISHOP WILBERFORCE.

LIV.

CONTROVERSY.

E calm in arguing, for fierceness makes
Error a fault, and truth difcourtesy.
Why fhould I feel another man's mif-
takes

More than his fickness or his poverty?
In love I fhould: but anger is not love,
Nor wisdom neither; therefore, gently move.

Calmness is great advantage: he that lets
Another chafe, may warm him at his fire,

Mark all his wanderings, and enjoy his frets;

As cunning fencers fuffer heat to tire.

Truth dwells not in the clouds; the bow that's there Doth often aim at, never hit, the sphere.

GEORGE HERBERT.

LV.

THE SOUL.

NOW'ST thou the value of a foul immortal?

Behold the midnight glory, worlds on worlds!

Amazing pomp! Redouble this amaze; Ten thousand add; and twice ten thousand more;

all.

one foul outweighs them

YOUNG.

LVI.

MUSIC.

IKE Mufic on the waters,
Is thy fweet voice to me:
When as if its found were caufing,
The charmed ocean's paufing,

The waves lie ftill and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds feem dreaming.

LVII.

MUSIC.

IKE the gale, that fighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,

Is the grateful breath of fong,
That once was heard in happier

hours;

Filled with balm, the gale fighs on,
Though the flowers have funk in death;

So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in mufic's breath.

Mufic! oh how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy fpell!

Why should Feeling ever speak,

When thou canft breathe her foul fo well?

Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are e'en more falfe than they;

Oh! 'tis only Mufic's ftrain

Can fweetly foothe, and not betray!

MOORE.

LVIII.

MUSIC.

HERE the bright Seraphim, in burning

row,

Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow;

And the Cherubick hoft, in thousand
quires,

Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With thofe juft fpirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy pfalms

Singing everlastingly.

MILTON.

LIX.

MUSIC.

ND ftoried windows, richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light;

A

There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,

In fervice high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into ecftafies,

And bring all heaven before mine eyes.

MILTON.

A

LX.

ST. IGNATIUS.

|S, one by one, ftars on the Eastern space
Come forth, while daylight fades,
And greet each other to their heavenly
place,

Thus, while death's deepening fhades

Darken around thy fteps in ftranger lands,

Sweet awful memories of thine own St. John
Wake round thee; martyred Peter beckoning ftands,
And stirs again the Spirit's benifon

Given through his hands; upon the self-fame road,
Lo, the bright footsteps of the death-bound Paul!
Thy foul is fanned to burning hardihood:
We hear in thee the Bridegroom's warning call,
And full of glowing life thy dying accents fall!

The Saviour laid thy body in the duft.

That thou might'ft rule thy flock a prieft on high,

And teach thy children to afcend the sky.

SYNESIUS.