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,
Waits not for wonder or for fign,
Believes, because it loves, aright,
Shall fee things greater, things di-

vine.

KEBLE.

LXXVI.

FAITH AND WORKS.

The Papyfte.

F thou wilt take the Byble boke,
And upon Saint James 'pytle loke,
Ther you fhall, I trowe, fe

How fayth is ther trewly applyed,
And good workes with hym tyed;
Se how they do agre.

The Chriftiane.

Paul only of fayth,

Of workes Saynt James fayth,
God doth us iuftifye;

Before God fayth thanne,

And workes before manne,

Concludeth this controverfye."

R

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 ferene,
But earthly hope, how bright foe'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 falfe doctrine, under that colour to maintayne the fame." 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.

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,
Has wept a filent flood, reverfed his ways,
Is fober, meek, benevolent, and prays,
Feeds fparingly, communicates his ftore,
Abhors the craft he boafted of before,
And he that ftole has learnt to fteal no more.
Well fpake the prophet, Let the defert fing,
Where sprang the thorn, the fpiry fir fhall spring,
And where unfightly and rank thistles grew,

Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew.

COWPER.

LXXIX.

THE INDIAN'S PRAYER.

IN de dark woods, no Indian nigh,
Den me look Heb'n and fend up cry,
Upon my knee fo low;

Dat God on high, in fhiny place,
See me in night wid teary face,

My priest he tell me fo.

God fend He angel take me care,
Him come Hefelf, and hear me prayer,
If Indian heart do pray;

Him fee me now,—He knows me here,
He fay, "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 fave 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 deferted!

Thy tribes wander friend lefs, thy

glory is gone,

Thy prophets are filent, their glory de

parted,

And hufh'd is the voice of the Monarch of Song.

Midft 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.

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

LXXXII.

ISRAEL.

HOSE holy fields,

Over whofe acres walk'd those bleffed feet,

Which, fourteen hundred years ago,

were nail'd

For our advantage, on the bitter cross.

SHAKESPEARE.