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The heavenly bodies moving round,
Proclaim a Sov'reign cause profound,

And wisdom without space ;
Here order loudly speaks the skill
Of him, whose wise unchanging will

,
Assigns to each its place.
All-all in beav'n, in earth, in air,
Confirm at once, while they declare

Th' eternal truth abroad,
That He who made them all is He,
Who was, who is, who still must be,

Unchangeable and God.
Here then we take our stand—and here,
Uprais'd beyond corroding fear,

Our anchor hope retain ;
Nature may heave her last deep groad,
But 'mid her drear expiring moan,

The promises remain.
Stamp'd with inviolable truth,
To hoary age from lisping youth,

On these unmor'd we cast
Our souls. The word that's giv'n
Shall lead-or bear direct to heaven,

And land them safe at last.

She had each folded flower in sight

Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the west

By a dark stream, is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,

Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,

He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the lov'd of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weer.
One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd

Above the noble slain,
He wrapt his colours round his breast,

On a blood-red field of Spain.
And onemo'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd,
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.
And parted thus, they rest who play'd

Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee !
They that with smiles lit up the ball,

And cheer'd with song the hearth-
Alas for love, if thou wert all,

And nought beyond, on earth !

J. FOTXE

MRS. HEMANS.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. They grew in beauty, side by side,

They fill d one home with glee Their graves are sever'd far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea ! The same fond mother benit at night

O'er each fair sleeping brow,

ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT. Come, Disappointment, come !

Not in thy terrors clad

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Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies
The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,
And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress

twine.
Tho' Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,
Yet Meditation, in her cell,.
Hears with faint eye, the ling'ring knell,
That tells her hopes are dead;

And tho' the tear

By chance appear,
Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid

here.
Come, Disappointment, come!

Tho' from Hope's summit hurl'd,
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven,
For thou severe wert sent from heaven,
To wean me from the world ;

To turn my eye

From vanity,
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day !
A little sun-a little rain,
And then night sweeps along the plain,
Aud all things fade away.

Man (soon discuss'd)

Yields up his trust,
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.

Oh, what is Beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies.

W

E

lonk

Will the cold earth its silence break,
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek
Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O'er Beauty's fall,
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her

pall.

Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies
The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,
And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful

twine.
Tho' Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,
Yet Meditation, in her cell,
Hears with faint eye, the ling'ring kael.
That tells her hopes are dead;

And tho' the tear

By chance appear,
Yet she can smile, and say, My all was het i

here.
Come, Disappointment, come!

Tho' from Hope's summit burl'd,
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven,
For thou severe wert sent from bearell,
To wean me from the world:

To turn my eye

From vanity,
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day!
A little sun-a little rain,
And then night sweeps along the plain,
And all things fade away:

Man (soon discuss'd)
Yields

up

his trust,
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust

Oh, what is Beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies.

The most belov'd on earth

Not long survives to-day ;
So music past is obsolete,
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,
When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid.

Then since this world is vain,

And volatile and fleet,
Why should I lay up earthly joys,
Where rust corrupts, where moth destroys,
And cares and sorrows cat ?

Why fly from ill

With anxious skill,
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing

heart be still?
Come, Disappointment, come !

Thou art not stern to me;
Sad Monitress! I owe thy sway,
A votary sad in early day,
I bend my knee to thee.

From sun to sun

My race will run,
I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done !

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W. K. WHITE.

THE LORD'S DAY.

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How welcome to the saints, when press'd
With six days' noise, and care and toil,
Is the returning day of rest,
Which hides them from the world awhile !
Now from the throng withdrawn away,
They seem to breathe a diff'rent air ;
Compos'd and soften'd by the day,
All things another aspect wear,
How happy if their lot is cast
Where statedly the gospel sounds!
The word is honey to their taste,
Renews their strength, and heals their wounds!
Though pinch'd with poverty at home,
With sharp afflictions daily fed,
It makes amends, if they can come
To God's own house for heav'nly bread!
With joy they hasten to the place
Where they their Saviour oft have met ;
And while they feast upon bis grace,
Their burdens and their griefs forget.
'This favour'd lot, my friends, is ours;
May we the privilege improve,
And find these consecrated hours
Sweet earnest of the joys above.
We thank thee for thy day, O Lord !
Here we thy promis'd presence seek ;
Open thine hand, with blessings stor’d,
And give us manna for the week.

NEWTON

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THE SACRED LYRE

HYMNS FOR THE SEASONS.

24

THE LORD'S DAY.

SPRING.

How welcome to the saints, when press'?
With six days' noise, and care and toil

,
Is the returning day of rest,
Which bides them from the world awhile!
Now from the throng withdrawn away,
They seem to breathe a diffrent air;
Compos'd and soften'd by the day,
All things another aspect wear.
How bappy if their lot is cast
Where statedly the gospel sounds!
The word is honey to their taste,
Renews their strength, and heals their mosa
Though pinch'd with poverty at home,
With sharp afflictions daily fed,
It makes amends, if they can come
To God's own house for hearinly bread!
With joy they basten to the place
Where they their Saviour oft have met;
And while they feast upon his grace,
Their burdens and their griefs forget.
This favour'd lot, my friends, is ours ;
May we the privilege improve,
And find these consecrated hours
Sweet earnest of the joys above.
We thank thee for thy day, O Lord !
Here we thy promis'd presence seek;
Open thine hand, with blessings stor'd,
And give us manna for the week.

How smiling wakes the verdant year

Array'd in velvet green!
How glad the circling fields appear,

That bound the blooming scene!
Forth walks from heav’n the beaming Spring,

Calm as the dew she sheds;
And o'er the Winter's mutt'ring king

Her veil of roses spreads.
The sky serene, the waking flowers,

The river's loosen'd wave,
Repay the kind and tepid hours

With all the charms they gave.
And bark! From yon melodious grove

The featber'd warblers break;
And into notes of joy and love

The solitude awake!
And shall the first belov'd of heaven

Mute listen as they sing;
Shall man, to whom the lyre is giv'n

Not wake one grateful string?
O let me join th' aspiring lay,

That gives my Maker praise;
Join, but in louder notes than they,

Than all their pleasures raise !
From stormy Winter hoar and chill

Warm scenes of peace arise:
For ever thus from seeming ill

Heav'n every good supplies.
For see, 'tis mildness, beauty, all

Around the laughing whole;

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