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Oh, give me Thee ! When Faith and Hope are loft in perfect fight; And holy Love shall shed her heavenly light Eternally.
HE child-like Faith that asks not sight,
Waits not for wonder or for sign,
FAITH AND WORKS.
Se how they do agre.
God doth us iuftifye ;
Concludeth this controversye.*
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 foe'er,
* 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.
THE CONVERTED HEATHEN.
HAT are they now ? Morality may
spare Her grave concern, her kind suspicion
The wretch, who once fang, 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 sing, Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring, And where unsightly and rank thistles grew, Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew.
THE INDIAN'S PRAYER.
IN de dark woods, no Indian nigh,
Upon my knee so low;
See me in night wid teary face,
God send He angel take me care,
If Indian heart do pray ;
“Poor Indian, neber fear;
So me lub God with inside heart,
He take um part,
Him two times more.
H! land of the godly, how lone and
deserted! Thy tribes wander friendless, 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.
Arm of the Lord, awake! awake !
HOSE holy fields, :
were naild For our advantage, on the bitter cross.