Put their moft dreadful Forms
Of Rage and Mischief on;
I fhall be fafe;
For CHRIST displays
Superior Pow'r

And guardian Grace.

The END of the FIRST BOOK.

1. A Song in Praife to GOD from Great
Britain.

Ature with all her Pow'rs fhall fing
GOD the Creator and the King:
Nor Air, nor Earth, nor Skies, nor Seas,
Deny the Tribute of their Praise.

[2 Begin to make his Glories known, Ye Seraphs, that fit near his Throne;

Tune your Harps high, and spread the Sound To the Creation's utmost Bound.]

[3 All mortal Things of meaner Frame,
Exert your Force, and own his Name;
Whilft with our Souls, and with our Voice,
We sing his Honours, and our Joys.]

[4 To him be facred all we have,
From the young Cradle to the Grave:
Our Lips fhall his loud Wonders tell,
And ev'ry Word a Miracle.]

[5 This Northern Ifle, our native Land,
Lies fafe in the Almighty's Hand:
Our Foes, of Vict'ry dream in vain,
And own the captivating Chain.

6 He builds and guards the British Throne,
And makes it gracious, like his own;
Makes our fucceffive Princes kind,
And gives our Dangers to the Wind.]
7 Raise monumental Praises high
To him that thunders thro' the Sky,
And with an awful Nod or Frown
Shakes an afpiring Tyrant down.
[8 Pillars of lafting Brafs proclaim
The Triumphs of th` eternal Name;
While trembling Nations read from far
The Honours of the God of War.]

Thus let our flaming Zeal employ
Our loftieft Thoughts and loudest Songs;
BRITAIN pronounce with warmest Joy,
Hofanna, from ten thousand Tongues.

[10 Yet, mighty GoD, our feeble Frame Attempts in vain to reach thy Name; The strongest Notes that Angels raife, Faint in the Worship and the Praise.]

I

II. The Death of a Sinner.

M Damnation and the Dead

Thoughts on awful Subjects roll,

What Horrors feize the guilty Soul
Upon a dying Bed!

2 Ling'ring about these mortal Shores,
She makes a long Delay;

Till like a Flood with rapid Force,
Death fweeps the Wretch away.

3 Then swift and dreadful fhe descends
Down to the fiery Coast,
Amongst abominable Fiends,
Herself a frighted Ghost.

4 There endless Crowds of Sinners lie,
And Darkness makes their Chains;
Tortur'd with keen Despair they cry,
Yet wait for fiercer Pains.

5 Not all their Anguish and their Blood
For their old Guilt atones,
Nor the Compaffion of a GOD
Shall hearken to their Groans.

6 Amazing Grace, that kept my Breath,
Nor bid my Soul remove,

Till I had learn'd my Saviour's Death,
And well infur'd his Love!

III. The Death and Burial of a Saint.

WHY

do we mourn departing Friends? Or fhake at Death's Alarms?

"Tis but the Voice that Jesus fends!

To call them to his Arms.

2 Are we not tending upward too
As faft as Time can move?
Nor fhould we wish the Hours more flow,
To keep us from our Love."

3 Why fhould we tremble to convey
Their Bodies to the Tomb?
There the dear Flefh of JESUS lay,
And left a long Perfume.

4 The Graves of all his Saints he bless'd,
And foft'ned ev'ry Bed:

Where should the dying Members reft,
But with their dying Head?

5 Thence he arofe, afcending high,
And fhew'd our Feet the Way:
Up to the LORD our Flefh fhall fly,
At the great Rising-day.

6 Then let the laft loud Trumpet found,
And bid our Kindred rife:

Awake, ye Nations under Ground;
Ye Saints afcend the Skies.