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HE first-born rose of vernal prime,
its bosom rare,
Doth make its morning prayer.
The Summer bird, on raptured wing,
That cleaves the vaulted sky,
Its gushing minstrelfy.
Her harvests ripening fair ;
Doth praise the Giver's care.
Each Winter, in its Sabbath reft,
Adores the King of Might;
Who robes the earth in white.
Thou art His servant, O my soul,
By birth, by choice, by vow; By bounties of each rolling year —
Prove thine allegiance now.
Yea, prove it as each passing day
Unfolds its pinions fleet,
By strains of worship sweet.
Make this brief life a song of praise,
Where'er thy lot may
ON cottager, who weaves at her own
door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store, Content though mean, and cheerful if
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,-
HE Spirit breathes upon the Word,
And brings the truth to fight;
A sanctifying light.
A glory gilds the facred page,
Majestic like the fun;
It gives, but borrows none.
The hand that gave it still supplies
The gracious light and heat ; His truths upon the nations rise,
They rise, but never set.
Let everlasting thanks be thine
For such a bright display,
With beams of heavenly day.
My soul rejoices to pursue,
The steps of Him I love,
In brighter worlds above.
JERE is the spring whence waters flow,
To quench our heat of fin;
Here is the Judge that stints the strife,
When men's devices fail ;
Which death cannot affail.
The tidings of salvation dear,
Come to our ears from hence ; The fortress of our faith is here,
And shield of our defence.
Then be not like the Hog, that hath
A pearl at his desire ;
And wallowing in the mire.
But with a single eye ;
To understand thereby.
To mortify thy fin.
Then happy thou, in all thy life,
What so to thee befalls ;
When God, by death, thee calls. *
ND who is He? the vast, the awful
form, Girt with the whirlwind, sandal'd with
the storm ;
Lo! cherub hands the golden courts prepare ;
night, God is their temple, and the Lamb their light;
* These lines are to be found in the “Bishop's Bible” of 1568.