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And give those scales, of silver white,
So gaily to the eye of light,
As if thy frame were form'd to rise,
And live amid the glorious skies;
Oh! it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that scorns to rest
Upon the world's ignoble breast,
But takes the plume that God has given,
And rises into light and heaven!
But when I see that wing, so bright,
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air, in vain,
And sink into the waves again;
Alas! the flatt'ring pride is o'er;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
But erring man must blush, to think,
Like thee, again, the soul may sink!
Oh! Virtue, when thy clime I seek,
Let not my spirit's flight be weak:
Let me not, like this feeble thing,
With brine still dropping from its wing,
Just sparkle in the solar glow,
And plunge again to depths below:
But, when I leave the grosser throng
With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,
Let me, in that aspiring day,
Cast every ling'ring stain away,
And, panting for thy purer air,
Fly up at once and fix me there!
FROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain!
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Java's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile:
In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strown,
The Heathen, in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone!
Can we, whose souls are lighted
With Wisdom from on high,
Can we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! oh, Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Has learn'd Messiah's name!
Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till like a sea of glory,
It spreads from pole to pole;
Till o'er our ransom'd Nature,
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign!
THE CHILDREN OF GOD.
THERE is a family on earth,
Whose Father fills a throne:
But, though a seed of heav'nly birth
To men they're little known.
Whene'er they meet the public eye,
They feel the public scorn;
For men their fairest claims deny,
And count them basely born.
But 'tis the King who reigns above,
That claims them for his own:
The favour'd objects of his love,
And destin'd to a throne.
The honours that belong to them,
By men are set at nought;
Whatever shines not they contemn,
Unworthy of a thought!
But, ah! how little they reflect!
For, mark th' unerring word!
"That which with men has most respect,
Is odious to the Lord."
Were honours evident to sense,
Their portion here below;
The world would do them reverence,
And all their claims allow.
But, when the King himself was here,
His claims were set at nought:
Would they another lot prefer?
Rejected be the thought!
No! they will tread, while here below,
The path their Master trod;
Content all honour to forego
But that which comes from God.
And when the King again appears,
He'll vindicate his claim;
Eternal honours shall be theirs;
Their foes be filled with shame.
WALKING WITH GOD.
OH! for a closer walk with God,
A calm and heav'nly frame;
A light, to shine upon the road
That leads me to the Lamb!
Where is the blessedness I knew
When first I saw the Lord?
Where is the soul-refreshing view
Of Jesus, and his word?
What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd!
How sweet their mem'ry still!
But they have left an aching void
The world can never fill.
Return, O! holy Dove, return
Sweet messenger of rest;
I hate the sins that made thee mourn,
And drove thee from my breast.
The dearest idol I have known,
Whate'er that idol be,
Help me to tear it from thy throne,
And worship only thee.
So shall my walk be close with God,
Calm and serene my frame;
So purer light shall mark the road,
That leads me to the Lamb.
SWEET day of rest! for the I'd wait,
Emblem and earnest of a state
Where saints are fully blest!
For thee I'd look, for thee I'd sigh!
I'd count the days, till thou art nigh,
Sweet day of sacred rest.
But oft (with shame I will confess,)
My privilege my burden is,
No joy, alas have I:
When I would take my harp and sing,
I find it oft without a string,
And lay it coldly by.
But while I thus confess my shame,
'Tis right that I should praise his name,
Who makes me sometimes sing.
Yes, Lord, (I'll speak it to thy praise,)
My cheerful song I sometimes raise,
And triumph in my King.
O let the case be always so,
My song no interruption know,
Till death shall seal my tongue.
In heav'n a nobler strain I'll raise,
And rest from ev'ry thing but praise;
My heav'n an endless song.
THE PILGRIM'S SONG.
RISE, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy better portion trace;