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O LORD, my God, in mercy turn,
O ,
In mercy hear a sinner mourn!
To thee I call, to thee I cry,
O leave me, leave me not to die!

I strove against thee, Lord, I know,
I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law;
The hour is past—the day's gone by,
And I am left alone to die.

O pleasures past, what are ye now
But thorns about my bleeding brow?
Spectres that hover round my brain,
And aggravate and mock my pain,

For pleasure I have given my soul;
Now, justice, let thy thunders roll!
Now vengeance smile and with a blow,
Lay the rebellious ingrate low.

Yet Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling,
I'll croud beneath his sheltering wing;
I'll clasp the cross, and holding there,
Even me,

oh bliss!-his wrath may spare. MELODY.

Inserted in a Collection of selected and original Songs, published

by the Rev. J. Plumptre, of Clare Hall, Cambridge.

YES, once more that dying strain,

Anna touch thy lute for me;
Sweet, when pity's tones complain,

Doubly sweet is melody.

While the Virtues thus ipweave

Mildly soft the thrilling song;
Winter's long and lonesome eve,

Glides unfelt, unseen along.

Thus when life hath stolen away,

And the wintry night is near;
Thus shall virtue's friendly ray,

Age's closing evening cheer,


A lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to Henry, and when

he returned them to her, she discovered an additional stanza written by him at the bottom of the song here copied.

GO, lovely rose !
Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied ;

That had'st thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wonderous sweet and fair.

[Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;

And teach the maid,
That goodness Time's rude hand defies,
That virtue lives when beauty dies.]



WHEN twilight steals along the ground,
And all the bells are ringing round,

One, two, three, four, and five;
I at my study window sit,
And wrapt in many a musing fit,

To bliss am all alive.

But though impressions calm and sweet,
Thrill round my heart a holy heat,

And I am inly glad;
The tear-drop stands in either eye,
And yet I cannot tell thee why,

I am pleas'd, and yet I'm sad.

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The silvery rack that flies away,
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,

Does that disturb my breast?
Nay what have I, a studious man,
To do with life's unstable plan,

Or pleasure's fading vest ?

Is it that bere I must not stop,
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top,

Must bend my lonely way?
Now surely no, for give but me
My own fire-side, and I shall be

At home where'er I stray.

Then is it that yon steeple there,
With music sweet shall fill the air,

When thou no more can'st hear?
Oh no! oh no! for then forgiven,
I shall be with my God in Heaven,

Releas'd from every fear.

Then whence it is I cannot tell,
But there is some mysterious spell

That holds me when I am glad; And so the tear-drop fills my eye, When yet in truth I know not why,

Or wherefore I am sad.

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