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THY judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear
The face of pity, and of love divine ;

But mine is guilt-thou must not, can'st not, spare,
While Heaven is true, and equity is thine.
Yes, oh, my God !—such crimes as mine, so dread,
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,

And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!
Thy will be done-since 'tis thy glory's due,

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; Smite-it is time-though endless death ensue,

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?

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VOL. II.

POEMS

OF A LATER DATE.

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.
Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;

My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.
On this I act-whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound.
When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I liv'd an unlov'd solitary thing; '

Even then I learnt to bury deep from day,
The piercing cares that wore my youth away.
Even then I learnt for others' cares to feel,
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 fireThe 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;

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