O what a goodly scene! here the bleak mount, The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd, Now winding bright and full, with naked banks And seats, and lawns, the abbey, and the wood, And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire: The channel there, the islands and white sails, Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless

ocean

It seem'd like Omnipresence! God, methought, Had built him there a temple: the whole world Seem'd imag'd in its vast circumference. No wish profan'd my overwhelmed heart. Blest hour! it was a luxury-to be! Ah quiet dell! dear cot! and mount sublime, I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right, While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled. That I should dream away the entrusted hours rose-leaf beds, pamp'ring the coward heart h feelings all too delicate for use? et is the tear that from some Howard's eye ps on the cheek of one he lifts from earth: he, that works me good with unmov'd face it but half: he chills me while he aids.benefactor, not my brother man! even this, this cold beneficence es my praise; when I reflect on those, Inggard pity's vision-weaving tribe! h for wretchedness, yet shun the wretche g in some delicious solitude slothful loves and dainty sympathies! efore go, and join head, heart, and hand e and firm, to fight the bloodless fight ience, freedom, and the truth in Christ

Yet oft when after honourable toil
Rests the tir'd mind, and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot!

Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose,
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea air.
And I shall sigh fond wishes-sweet abode!
Ah-had none greater! and that all had such!

COME, CREATOR.

DRYDEN.

CREATOR Spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind;
Come pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire.
Come, and thy sacred unction bring
To sanctify us while we sing.

Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sevenfold energy!
Thou strength of His almighty hand,
Whose power does heaven and earth command.
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,

Who dost the gift of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence,

Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts:
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;

And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thine hand, and hold them down.

Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.

Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe:
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by thee.

Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name :
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died:
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee!

THE MISSIONARY'S GRAVE.

SWAN.

ON the warrior's early tomb

Victory twines the laurel wreath, Hark! his country bids it bloom O'er her hero's dust beneath.

Glory has a halo thrown

Round the consecrated grave;

O'er it love and friendship mourn,, Beauty weeps the fallen brave! But there is a glorious fight, Fought by heroes little known, Nor has Fame, to tell their might, Oft her silver trumpet blown.

Yes, there is a boly cause

In that cause to yield my breath, Though I miss the world's applause, I would die the martyr's death.

Here a soldier's ashes rest-
In this desert spot of ground,
Long the foe around him press'd,
Now he is with glory crown'd.

171

Let the world its heroes praise, Round thei: tombs its la els twine, May the Christian's fighting days And the Christian's grave be mine.

Refine and purge our earthly parts: But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts: Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul; And when rebellious they are grown, Then lay thine hand, and hold them down. Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us in the way.

Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe:
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by thee.

Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name:
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died:
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee!

THE MISSIONARY'S GRAVE
SWAN.

On the warrior's early tomb
Victory twines the laurel wreath,
Hark! his country bids it bloom
O'er her hero's dust beneath.

Glory has a halo thrown

Round the consecrated grave;

O'er it love and friendship mourn,,
Beauty weeps the fallen brave!
But there is a glorious fight,

Fought by heroes little known,
Nor has Fame, to tell their might,
Oft her silver trumpet blown.
Yes, there is a holy cause-

In that cause to yield my breath, Though I miss the world's applause, I would die the martyr's death. Here a soldier's ashes rest

In this desert spot of ground, Long the foe around him press'd, Now he is with glory crown'd.

Let the world its heroes praise,

- Round their tombs its lau els twine, May the Christian's fighting days

And the Christian's grave be mine.

WHAT DOEST THOU HERE, ELIJAH?

HUIE.

WHAT dost thou, Christian, 'mongst the tra
Who barter heaven for sordid gain,
And heaps of dust, with toil and pain,

In Mammon's temple pile?
What dost thou in the tinsell'd hall,
To which the sons of music call,
Or where in pageant, mask, or ball,
Gay Fashion's daughters smile?

What dost thou, Christian, 'midst the state
Which haunts the mansions of the great,
Where tribes of servile flatterers wait,
To worship pomp or power?
What dost thou at the festive board,
With sparkling wines and dainties stored,
Where riot holds his rites abhorr'd,

And madness rules the hour?
What dost thou, Christian, where, I ween,
The lowly Saviour ne'er had been?
Shun, shun the gay, delusive scene,

The poison'd chalice fly.

O'er sorrow's darken'd chamber throw
The light which soothes a mourner's woe,
And wipe away the tears that flow
From misery's melting eye.

Go, bid the church of Jesus feel
The impulse of thy sacred zeal;
To aid thy kin, thy country's weal,
Thy time, thy wealth employ :
So, when thy mortal race is run,
Enthron'd in bliss, the incarnate Son
Shall say,
"My servant, nobly done,
"Partake thy Master's joy!"

SACRED HARMONY.

The winds breathe low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed!
Tis like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.

How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!
Tis like the memory left behind
When loved ones breathe their last.

And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.

But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore,

And eyelids that are sealed in death
Shall wake to close no more.

173

What dost thou, Christian, 'midst the state
Which haunts the mansions of the great
Where tribes of servile flatterers wait,
To worship pomp or power?
What dost thou at the festive board,
With sparkling wines and dainties stored,
Where riot holds his rites abhorr'd,

And madness rules the hour!

What dost thou, Christian, where, I wea The lowly Saviour ne'er had been! Shun, shun the gay, delusive scene, The poison'd chalice fly. O'er sorrow's darken'd chamber throw The light which soothes a mourner's we And wipe away the tears that flow From misery's melting eye. Go, bid the church of Jesus feel The impulse of thy sacred zeal: To aid thy kin, thy country's weal, Thy time, thy wealth employ So, when thy mortal race is run, Enthron'd in bliss, the incarnate Sen Shall say, "My servant, nobly done, "Partake thy Master's joy!"

The winds breathe low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is shed! 'Tis like the peace the Christian gives To mourners round his bed. How mildly on the wandering cloud The sunset beam is cast! 'Tis like the memory left behind

When loved ones breathe their last.

And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore,

And eyelids that are sealed in death
Shall wake to close no more.

THE SINNER PARDONED.

COWPER.

Now let the bright reverse be known abroad; Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God.

As when a felon whom his country's laws Have justly doomed for some atrocious cause, Expects in darkness and heart-chilling fears, The shameful close of all his mispent years;