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Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltr'ing accents whisper'd praise.

At church with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place:
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;
Ev'n children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, tos hare the good man's
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, [smile.
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n.
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

GOLDSMITH.

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PROVIDENCE.

GOD moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sov'reign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds, ye so much dread,
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding ev'ry hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flow'r.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His works in vain ;
God is his own interpreter,

And he will make it plain.

COWPER.

WISDOM AND VIRTUE SOUGHT FROM GOD.

SUPREME and universal Light!
Fountain of reason! Judge of right!
Parent of good! whose blessings flow
On all above, and all below:

Without whose kind directing ray,
In everlasting night we stray,
From passion still to passion tost,
And in a maze of error lost;

Assist me, Lord, to act, to be,
What nature and thy laws decree;
Worthy that intellectual flame
Which from thy breathing Spirit came.

My mortal freedom to maintain,
Bid passion serve, and reason reign,
Self-pois'd, and independent still
On this world's varying good or ill.

32d

No slave to profit, shame, or fear,
O may my steadfast bosom bear
The stamp of heav'n, an honest heart,
Above the mean disguise of art.

May my expanded soul disdain
The narrow view, the selfish aim;
But with a Christian zeal embrace
Whate'er is friendly to my race.

O Father! grace and virtue grant!
No more I wish, no more I want:
To know, to serve thee, and to love,
Is peace below, is bliss above.

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HENRY MOORE.

WHEN day-light breaks, and sheds his rays abroad,

Turn from the splendour of his sunny glow; Let thy soul leave the earth, and soar to God,

As the sweet flower turns to the sun below, And drinks the blessed rays which from his brightness flow.

Oh! let not nature's praises soar on high,
Ere thy lips open with its morning pray'r;
Let not the larks shrill music fill the sky,

Ere thy heart lifts its aspirations there;
But let the dawn of morn thy orisons declare.

Morn is the time, to see thy pray'rs begun ;
For morning hymn'd the young Creation's
birth;

And the grave open'd with the morning sun,

When man's redemption was complete on earth ;

And morn shall see our God in judgement coming forth.

Serve God at morn, that solemn hallow'd hour, When nature wakes, as from the sleep of death, When the glad song from mountain, grove, and bower, [neath,

Is heard through heaven, and on the earth beServe God, let him receive thy morning's early breath.

Happy the day, whose first beam bears thy song On his bright wing, up to the gate of heaven, Where thy faint praises mingle with that throng, Who rest not from their hallelujahs morn or

even,

To whom the glorious palm of victory is given.

Happy the day, whose hours are thus begun ;

A day from storms, and every tempest free, Though clouds may rise, the splendour of the sun Will make the darkness and the shadows flee, As mist from mountain tops when they the morning see.

Happy the day,-there's promise in its close;
A brighter promise than the morning gave;
For when its sunset o'er creation throws

A lustre, and then sparkles on the wave,
Its parting beam shall rest all glorious on thy grave.

WEIR.

CHRIST'S PASSIONS.

No more of earthly subjects sing;
To heaven, my muse, aspire;

To raise the song, charge ev'ry string,
And strike the living lyre.

Begin, in lofty numbers show
Th' Eternal King's unfathom'd love,
Who reigns the Sov'reign God above,
And suffers on the cross below.
Prodigious pile of wonders! rais'd too high
For the dim ken of frail mortality.

What numbers shall I bring along?

From whence shall I begin the song. The mighty mystery I'll sing, inspir'd, Beyond the reach of human wisdom wrought, Beyond the compass of an angel's thought, How by the rage of man has God expir'd. I'll make the trackless depths of mercy known, How to redeem his foe God render'd up his Son; I'll raise my voice to tell mankind

The victor's conquest o'er his doom;

How in the grave he lay confin'd,

To seal more sure the rav'nous tomb. Three days, th' infernal empire to subdue; He pass'd triumphant through the coasts of woe; With his own dart the tyrant Death he slew, And led Hell captive through her realms below. A mingled sound from Calvary I hear, And the loud tumult thickens on my ear, The shouts of murd'rers, that insult the slain, The voice of torment, and the shrieks of pain. I cast my eyes with horror up

To the curst mountain's guilty top;

See there! whom hanging in the midst I view !
Ah! how unlike the other two!

I see him high above his foes,
And gently bending from the wood
His head in pity down to those

Whose guilt conspires to shed his blood.

His wide extended arms I see

Transfix'd with nails, and fasten'd to the tree.

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