Milton.-George Whitfield. 243 LXV. MILTON. OR fecond He that rode fublime, He paffed the flaming bounds of place The living throne, the fapphire blaze, Clofed his eyes in endless night. GRAY. LXVI. GEORGE WHITFIELD, E loved the world that hated him- the tear That dropped upon his Bible was fin cere ; Affailed by fcandal and the tongue of ftrife, His only answer was a blameless life; And he that forged, and he that threw the dart, COWPER. LXVII. SCHWARTZ. IRM wast thou, humble and wife, Honeft, pure, free from disguise; port; Comfort in forrow of every fort. To the benighted, difpenfer of light; May I, my Father, be worthy of thee, SARABOJEE. LXVIII. HENRY MARTYN. ERE Martyn lies! In manhood's early The Chriftian hero found a Pagan tomb. won. Immortal trophies! Not with flaughter red, Where danger, toil, and fhame, are known no more. LXIX. GOD'S WORKS. HESE are thy glorious works, Thou How dimly feen, how faintly under- LXX. LIFE. IVE while you live, the Epicure will And give to pleasure each returning day; cries, And give to God each moment as it flies: DODDRIDGE. LXXI. LIFE. UR birth is but a fleep and a forgetting: life's ftar, Hath had elsewhere its fetting, And cometh from afar Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come Yet he beholds the light, and whence it flows; He fees it in his joy. WORDSWORTH. LXXII. DEATH. O me the thought of death is terrible, So much even as the lifting of a latch; Out of a tent already luminous With light that shines through its tranfparent walls. Death.-The Three Graces. 247 LXXIII. DEATH. WHAT is death? "Tis life's laft fhore, LXXIV. THE THREE GRACES. H! give me Faith! The fweet affurance that a Saviour That, for my fins, His flesh was crufied Lafting till death! Hope give me, too! The glorious hope that Thou, O God! art mine; This beacon light in me for ever shine, Joyful and true. And give me Love! Love for my neighbour and Jehovah's name; |