THY judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear But mine is guilt-thou must not, can'st not, spare, Yes, oh, my God!-such crimes as mine, so dread, Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood? TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly, asked, "If he did not feel for him." "Do I not feel!” The doubt is keen as steel. My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye heart. On this I act-whatever pangs surround, Even then I learnt to bury deep from day, Even then I wept I had not power to heal; Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom. Who were my friends in youth?—The midnight fire-- The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir; To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight, To bless my lonely taper's friendly light; |