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Oh, give me Thee! When Faith and Hope are lost in perfect fight; And holy Love shall shed her heavenly light Eternally.

R.

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HE child-like Faith that aks not fight,

Waits not for wonder or for sign,
Believes, because it loves, aright,
Shall see things greater, things di-
vine.

KEBLE.

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LXXVI.

FAITH AND WORKS.

The Papyfte.
F thou wilt take the Byble boke,
And upon Saint James 'pystle loke,

Ther you shall, I trowe, se
How fayth is ther trewly applyed,
And good workes with hym tyed;

Se how they do agre.

The Christiane.
Paul only of fayth,
Of workes Saynt James sayth,

God doth us iuftifye ;
Before God fayth thanne,
And workes before

manne,
Concludeth this controversye.

LXXVII,

HOPE.

EFLECTED on the lake, I love

To see the stars of evening glow ; So tranquil in the heavens above,

So restless in the wave below.

Thus heavenly hope is all serene,

But earthly hope, how bright soe’er,
Still fluctuates o’er this changing scene,
As false and fleeting as 'tis fair.

BISHOP Heber.

* From “An Answere to a papystycall exhortacyon, pretendynge to auoyde false doctrine, under that colour to maintay ne the same.” No. 554, in the Lambeth Library. List of some of the early printed books by Dr. S. R. Maitland.

250 Converted Heathen.—Indian's Prayer.

LXXVIII.

THE CONVERTED HEATHEN.

W

HAT are they now? Morality may

spare Her grave concern, her kind suspicion

there ;

The wretch, who once sang, wildly danced, and laughed, And fucked in dizzy madness with his draught, Has wept a silent flood, reversed his

ways,
Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays,
Feeds sparingly, communicates his store,
Abhors the craft he boasted of before,
And he that stole has learnt to steal no more.
Well spake the prophet, Let the desert fing,
Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring,
And where unsightly and rank thistles grew,
Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew.

Cowper.

LXXIX.

THE INDIAN'S PRAYER.

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N de dark woods, no Indian nigh,
Den me look Heb'n and send up cry,

Upon my knee so low ;
Dat God on high, in shiny place,

See me in night wid teary face,
My priest he tell me so.

God send He angel take me care,
Him come Heself, and hear me prayer,

If Indian heart do pray ;
Him see me now,-He knows me here,
He say,

“ Poor Indian, neber fear;

Me wid you night and day.”
So me lub God with inside heart,
He fight for me.

He take um part,
He save um life before ;
God lub poor Indian in de wood,
So me lub He, and that be good,

Me pray Him two times more.

LXXX.

ISRAEL.

H! land of the godly, how lone and

deserted! Thy tribes wander friend less, thy

glory is gone, Thy prophets are filent, their glory de

parted, And hush'd is the voice of the Monarch of Song.

Midst the towers of thy Salem, the lone wolf is howling;

O’er the wrecks of thy Temple the wild Arab strays ; 'Mong the tombs of thy Fathers the tiger is prowling; As a dream we remember the fame of thy days.

Byron.

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Arm of the Lord, awake! awake!
The yoke of Judah's bondage break;
Tear from her captive neck the chain,
And raise her from the dust again!

LXXXII.

ISRAEL.

HOSE holy fields,
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed

feet,
Which, fourteen hundred years ago,

were nail'd For our advantage, on the bitter cross.

SHAKESPEARE.

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