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All that is good he'd crush,
Blindly on sin doth rush,

A pricking thorny bush,

Such Christ was crowned with:

Their worship's like to this,

The reed, the Judas kiss,

Such the religion is,

That these abound with; They mock Christ with the knee Whene'er they bow it;

As if God did not see

The heart, and know it.

Of good they choose the least,
Despise that which is best,

The joyful, heavenly feast,

Which Christ would give them; Heaven hath scarce one cold wish,

They live unto the flesh,

Like swine they feed on wash,

Satan doth drive them.

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JOHN QUARLES,

A SON of Francis Quarles, inherited much of his father's character and genius. He was educated by Archbishop Usher, upon whose death he wrote an elegy, beginning with these beautiful lines:

"Then weep no more; see how his peaceful breast,
Rocked by the hand of death, takes quiet rest.

Disturb him not; but let him sweetly take

A full repose; he hath been long awake."

He was for some time engaged in the civil wars, travelled abroad, and returning to London, died of the plague in 1665.

HYMN.

GREAT GOD, whose sceptre rules the earth,

Distil thy fear into my heart,

That, being rapt with holy mirth,

I may proclaim how good thou art:

Open my lips, that I may sing
Full praises to my God, my King.

Great God, thy garden is defaced,

The weeds thrive there, the flowers decay;
O call to mind thy promise past,

Restore thou them, cut these away:
Till then let not the weeds have power
To starve or stint the poorest flower.

In all extremes, Lord, thou art still

The mount whereto my hopes do flee;

O make my soul detest all ill,

Because so much abhorred by Thee:
Lord, let thy gracious trials show

That I am just, or make me so.

Shall mountain, desert, beast, and tree,
Yield to that heavenly voice of thine;
And shall that voice not startle me,

Nor stir this stone-this heart of mine?
No, Lord, till Thou new-bore mine ear,
Thy voice is lost, I cannot hear.

Fountain of light, and living breath,

Whose mercies never fail nor fade,
Fill me with life that hath no death,

Fill me with light that hath no shade;
Appoint the remnant of my days
To see thy power, and sing thy praise.

Lord, God of gods, before whose throne
Stand storms and fire, O what shall we
Return to heaven, that is our own,

When all the world belongs to Thee?
We have no offering to impart,
But praises, and a wounded heart.

O Thou that sittest in heaven, and seest
My deeds without, my thoughts within,
Be Thou my prince, be Thou my priest,-
Command my soul, and cure my sin:
How bitter my afflictions be

I care not, so I rise to Thee.

What I possess, or what I crave,

Brings no content, great God, to me,

If what I would or what I have

Be not possessed and blessed in Thee: What I enjoy, oh, make it mine,

In making me that have it-Thine.

When winter-fortunes cloud the brows

Of summer-friends,—when eyes grow strange,—

When plighted faith forgets its vows,

When earth and all things in it change,—

O Lord, thy mercies fail me never,—

When once Thou lovest, Thou lovest forever.

Great God, whose kingdom hath no end,
Into whose secrets none can dive,
Whose mercy none can apprehend,
Whose justice none can feel-and live,
What my dull heart cannot aspire
To know, Lord, teach me to admire.

SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE.

SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE, a poet, physician, and miscellaneous writer, was born in 1654. Among his poems are "The Creation," "The Redeemer," a " Paraphrase on the Book of Job," and a "Version of the Psalms." Blackmore was the butt of contemporary wits. Dryden commenced the persecution, and a host followed. Heedless, however, of this, he went on in his selected path, and he has received his reward in the commendations of such men as Addison, Locke, and Johnson. He died in 1739.

THE HUNDRED AND FOURTEENTH PSALM PARAPHRASED.

WHEN God a thousand miracles had wrought,
The favorite tribes' deliverance to promote,
And marching on in triumph at their head,
Their host to promised Canaan led;
Then, Jacob, was thy rescued race
Distinguished by peculiar marks of grace;
Their happiness and honor to advance,
He chose them for his own inheritance;
With whom alone their gracious God
Would make his residence and blest abode.
They were from heaven instructed to adore

Their God, and with celestial light
Canaan was blessed, as Goshen was before,

While all their neighbors lay involved in night.

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