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AWAKE, my soul! lift up thine eyes,
See where thy foes against thee rise,
In long array, a num'rous host;
Awake, my soul, or thou art lost.

Here giant Danger threat'ning stands
Must'ring his pale terrific bands;
There Pleasure's silken banners spread,
And willing souls are captive led.

See where rebellious passions rage,
And fierce desires and lusts engage;
The meanest foe of all the train
Has thousand of ten thousand slain.

Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground,
Perils and snares beset thee round;
Beware of all, guard ev'ry part,
But most the traitor in thy heart.

Come then, my soul, now learn to wield
The weight of thine immortal shield;
Put on the armour from above
Of heav'nly truth and heav'nly love.

The terror and the charm repel,

And pow'rs of earth, and pow'rs of hell.
The man of Calvary triumph'd here;
Why should his faithful followers fear?



THE poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;

The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elaps'd, since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid,

And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,

Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene, where his melody charm'd me before,
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,

With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead,

'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can,
To muse on the perishing pleasure of man ;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.



I HAVE seen the morning vapour
Scatter'd by the eye of day;
I have seen the evening taper
Shine, and glimmer, and decay ;
And bethought me, as I stood,
These are man's similitude.

Man is like a vapour flying
With the twilight o'er the dell ;
Man is like a pale lamp dying
In its solitary cell-

Light and shade-and ill and good-
Such is man's vicissitude.

Man in like a vapour, blending
With the dew of morning's breath;
Man is like a pale lamp tending
To its melancholy death:

Neither spar'd by whirlwinds rude

Such is man's similitude.




MERCY, my Judge! mercy I cry,

With blushing cheek and bleeding eye;
The conscious colours of my sin,

Are red without, and pale within.

O, let thine own soft bowels pay
Thyself, and so discharge that day!
If sin can sigh, Love can forgive,
O, say the word, my soul shall live!

Those mercies which thy Mary found,
Or who thy cross confess'd and crown'd,
Hope tells my heart, the same loves be
Still alive, and still for me.

Though both my prayers and tears combine,
Both worthless are, for they are mine;
But thou thy bounteous self still be,
And show thou art by saving me.

O! when thy last frown shall proclaim
The flocks of goats, to folds of flame,
And all thy lost sheep found shall be,
Let "Come, ye blessed," then call me.

When the dread "Ite" shall divide
Those limbs of death from thy left side,
Let those life-speaking lips command,
That I inherit the right hand.

O! hear a suppliant heart all crusht,
And crumbled into contrite dust:
My hope, my fear, my Judge, my friend,
Take charge of me, and of my end.



How happy is he born, or taught,
That serveth not another's will!
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill.

Whose passions not his masters are ;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death;
Untied unto the world, with care

Of public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor Vice: who never understood
How deepest wounds are given-by praise ;
Nor rules of state,-but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat
Whose state can neither flatterers feed

Nor, ruin make oppressors great ;
Who God doth, late and early, pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend;

And entertains the harmless day,
With a religious book or friend.


This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.



O SPARE me, Lord, nor o'er my head
The fulness of thy vengeance shed.
With pitying eye my weakness view,
Heal my vex'd soul, my strength renew;
And O, if yet my sins demand
The wise corrections of thy hand,

Yet give my pains their bounds to know,
And fix a period to my woe.

Return, great God, return, and save
Thy servant from the greedy grave.
Shall Death's long-silent tongue, O say,
The records of thy power display,
Or Pale Corruption's startled ear,
Thy praise within its prison hear!
By langour, grief, and care opprest,
With groans perpetual heaves my breast,
And tears, in large profusion shed,
Incessant lave my sleepless bed.
My life, though yet in mid career,
Beholds the winter of its year,
(While clouds of grief around me roll,
And hostile storms invade my soul.)
Relentless from my cheek the trace
Of youth and blooming health erase,
And spread before my wasting sight,
The shades of all-obscuring night.

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