With glaring colors, and false light;
Distance commends it to the sight,
For fools to gaze upon;

But bring the nauseous daubing nigh,
Coarse and confus'd the hideous figures lie,
Dissolve the pleasure, and offend the eye.

Look up, my soul, pant toward the eternal hills; Those heavens are fairer than they seem; There pleasures all sincere glide on in crystal rills, There not a dreg of guilt defiles,

Nor grief disturbs the stream.

That Canaan knows no noxious thing,

No cursed soil, no tainted spring,

Nor roses grow on thorns, nor honey wears a sting.

FELICITY ABOVE.

No, 'tis in vain to seek for bliss ;

For bliss can ne'er be found

Till we arrive where Jesus is,

And tread on heavenly ground.

There's nothing round these painted skies,
Or round this dusty clod,

Nothing, my soul, that's worth thy joys,
Or lovely as thy God.

'Tis heaven on earth to taste his love,

To feel his quickening grace;

And all the heaven I hope above

Is but to see his face.

Why move my years in slow delay?
O God of ages, why?

Let the spheres cleave, and mark my way
To the superior sky.

Dear Sovereign, break these vital strings
That bind me to my clay;

Take me, Uriel, on thy wings,

And stretch and soar away.

GOD'S DOMINION AND DECREES.

KEEP silence, all created things,

And wait your Maker's nod:

The muse stands trembling while she sings

The honours of her God.

Life, death, and hell, and worlds unknown, Hang on his firm decree:

He sits on no precarious throne,

Nor borrows leave to be.

The almighty voice bid ancient Night

Her endless realms resign,

And lo, ten thousand globes of light

In fields of azure shine.

Now wisdom, with superior sway,
Guides the vast moving frame,
Whilst all the ranks of beings pay
Deep reverence to his name.

He spake the sun obedient stood,
And held the falling day;
Old Jordan backward drives his flood,
And disappoints the sea.

Lord of the armies of the sky,
He marshals all the stars;
Red comets lift their banners high,
And wide proclaim his wars.

Chain'd to his throne a volume lies,
With all the fates of men,
With every angel's form and size
Drawn by the eternal pen.

His providence unfolds the book,

And makes his counsels shine;

Each opening leaf, and every stroke,
Fulfils some deep design.

Here he exalts neglected worms
To sceptres and a crown;

Anon the following page he turns,
And treads the monarchs down.

Not Gabriel asks the reason why,
Nor God the reason gives;
Nor dares the favourite angel pry
Between the folded leaves.

My God, I never long'd to see
My fate with curious eyes,
What gloomy lines are writ for me,
Or what bright scenes shall rise.

In thy fair book of life and grace
May I but find my name,
Recorded in some humble place
Beneath my Lord the Lamb!

SELF-CONSECRATION.

Ir grieves me, Lord, it grieves me sore, That I have liv'd to thee no more,

And wasted half my days;

My inward powers shall burn and flame,

With zeal and passion for thy name;

I would not speak, but for my God, nor move, but to his praise.

What are my eyes but aids to see
The glories of the Deity,

Inscrib'd with beams of light

On flowers and stars? Lord, I behold

The shining azure, green, and gold;

But when I try to read thy name, a dimness veils my sight.

Mine ears are rais'd when Virgil sings
Sicilian swains, or Trojan kings,

And drink the music in ;

Why should the trumpet's brazen voice,

Or oaten reed, awake my joys,

And yet my heart so stupid lie when sacred hymns begin?

Change me, O God; my flesh shall be
An instrument of song to thee,

And thou the notes inspire;

My tongue shall keep the heavenly chime,
My cheerful pulse shall beat the time,

And sweet variety of sound shall in thy praise conspire.

The dearest nerve about my heart,

Should it refuse to bear a part