Dear Jesus, my feelings refine,
My truant affections recall;
Then, be there no fruit on the vine,
Deserted and empty the stall;
The long-labored olive may die,
The field may no harvest afford;
But, under the gloomiest sky,

My soul shall rejoice in the Lord.

Then let the rudę tempest assail,
The blast of adversity blow;
The haven, though distant, I hail,
Beyond this rough ocean of woe
When, safe on the beautiful strand,
I'll smile at the billows, that foam;
Kind angels to hail me to land,

And Jesus to welcome me home.

TAYLOR.

WHAT IS LIFE?

"In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down and withereth."- Ps. xc. 6.

O, WHAT is life? "T is like a flower,

That blossoms, and is gone;

It flourishes its little hour,

With all its beauty on;

Death comes; and, like a wintry day,
It cuts the lovely flower away.

O, what is life? -"T is like the bow

That glistens in the sky;

We love to see its colors glow,

But while we look they die;

Life fails as soon, -to-day 't is here,—
To-morrow it may disappear.

Lord, what is life? - If spent with thee,
In humble praise and prayer,
How long or short our life may be,

We feel no anxious care;

Though life depart, our joys shall last,

When life and all its joys are past.

TAYLOR.

"THE TIME IS SHORT."

1 Cor. vii. 29.

WHETHER we smile or weep,
Time wings his flight;
Days, hours, they never creep;
Life speeds like light.

Whether we laugh or groan,

Seasons change fast;

Nothing hath ever flown

Swift as the past.

Whether we chafe or chide,
On is Time's pace;
Never his noiseless step

Doth he retrace.

Speeding, still speeding on,

How, none can tell;

Soon will he bear us

To heaven or hell.

Dare not, then, waste thy days,
Reckless and proud;

Lest, while ye dream not,

Time spread thy shroud.

FLEETNESS OF LIFE.

"The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away."— Ps. xc. 10.

BEHOLD

How short a span

Was long enough, of old,

To measure out the life of man;

In those well-tempered days, his life was then Surveyed, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten.

How vain,

How wretched, is

Poor man, that doth remain

A slave to such a state as this;

His days are short at longest, few at most,
They are but bad at best, yet lavished out or lost.

They be

The secret springs

That make our minutes flee

On wheels more swift than eagle's wings.

Our life's a clock; and every gasp of breath Breathes forth a warning grief, till time shall strike a death.

How soon

Our new-born light

Attains to full-aged noon!

And this how soon to gray-haired night!

We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast, Ere we can count our days, our days they flee so fast.

They end

When scarce begun;

And, ere we apprehend

That we begin to live, our life is done ;

Man! count thy days; and, if they fly too fast For thy dull thoughts to count, count every day thy last.

QUARLES.

A THOUGHT ON DEATH.

"One dieth in his full strength; and another dieth in the bitterness of his soul."- Job xxi. 23, 25.

WHEN life as opening buds is sweet,
And golden hopes the spirits greet,
And youth prepares his joys to meet,
Alas! how hard it is to die!

When scarce is seized some borrowed prize,

And duties press; and tender ties

Forbid the soul from earth to rise,

How awful, then, it is to die!

When, one by one, those ties are torn,
And friend from friend is snatched forlorn,
And man is left alone to mourn,

Ah! then how easy 't is to die!

When trembling limbs refuse their weight,
And films, slow gathering, dim the sight,
And clouds obscure the mental light,

'Tis nature's precious boon, to die!

When faith is strong, and conscience clear,
And words of peace the spirit cheer,
And visioned glories half appear,

'Tis joy, 't is triumph, then, to die!

BARBAULD.