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; WORDSWORTH. LXXII. DEATH. O me the thought of death is terrible, it is not So much even as the lifting of a latch; Out of a tent already luminous With light that shines through its transparent walls. Where vanities are vain no more; Where all pursuits their goal obtain, And life is all retouched again. LXXIV. THE THREE GRACES. H! give me Faith! The fweet affurance that a Saviour died That, for my fins, His flefh was cru 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 ; Oh, give me Thee! When Faith and Hope are loft in perfect fight; And holy Love fhall fhed her heavenly light Eternally. R. LXXV. FAITH. HE child-like Faith that afks not fight, KEBLE. LXXVI. FAITH AND WORKS. The Papyfte. F thou wilt take the Byble boke, How fayth is ther trewly applyed, The Chriftiane. Paul only of fayth, Of workes Saynt James fayth, Before God fayth thanne, And workes before manne, Concludeth this controversye.* LXXVII. HOPE. EFLECTED on the lake, I love R To see the stars of evening glow; Thus heavenly hope is all ferene, BISHOP HEBER. * From "An Answere to a papysty call exhortacyon, pretendynge to auoyde falfe doctrine, under that colour to maintayne the fame." No. 554, in the Lambeth Library. Lift of fome of the early printed books by Dr. S. R. Maitland. 250 Converted Heathen.—Indian's Prayer. LXXVIII. THE CONVERTED HEATHEN. HAT are they now? Morality may fpare Her grave concern, her kind fufpicion there; The wretch, who once fang, wildly danced, and laughed, And fucked in dizzy madness with his draught, Where sprang the thorn, the fpiry fir fhall fpring, Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew. Cowper. LXXIX. THE INDIAN'S PRAYER. IN de dark woods, no Indian nigh, Dat God on high, in fhiny place, See me in night wid teary face, My priest he tell me fo. |