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Forever, Lord, thý servant choose, —
Nought of thy claim abate!

The glorious name I would not lose,
Nor change the sweet estate,

In life, in death, on earth, in heaven,
No other name for me!

The same sweet style and title given
Through all eternity.

T. H. Gill.


T is not they who idly dwell


In cloister gray, or hermit cell,

In prayer and vigil, night and day,
Wearing all their prime away,

Lord of Heaven! that serve thee well.

Action ftill muft wait on thought;
Life's a voyage rough though short;
We muft dare the sorrow-wave,
Many a fin-storm we must brave,

Ere we reach our deftined port.

Sitting liftening on the shore
To the ocean's restless roar,

Never launching on the main,

Can the merchant hope to gain Wealth to swell his treasure-store ?

Vain it were to watch befide

The pits where we our talents hide; We must face the noise and ftrife Of the market-place of life,

That our truftiness be tried.

Where our Captain bids us go,
'Tis not ours to murmur, "No."

He that gives the sword and fhield,
Chooses too the battle-field

On which we are to fight the foe.

Though, where'er we look around,
All we see is hoftile ground,

Where our upturn'd eyes above
Recognize His banner, Love,
There it is we fhould be found.


LORD, I have lain

Barren too long, and fain

I would redeem the time, that I may be
Fruitful to thee;

Fruitful in knowledge, faith, obedience,
Ere I go hence:

That when I come

At harvest to be reapéd, and brought home,
Thine angels may

My soul in thy celestial garner lay,
Where perfect iov and bliss
Eternal is.

If to entreat

A crop of pureft wheat,

A bleffing too transcendent should appear

For me to hear,

Lord, make me what thou wilt, so thou wilt take What thou doft make,

And not disdain

To house me, though among thy coarseft grain;
So I may be

Laid with the gleanings gathered by thee,
When the full fheaves are spent,

I am content.

Francis Quarles. 1592-1644.

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OTHING but leaves; the spirit grieves.
OTHING but leave


Sin committed while conscience flept,
Promises made but never kept,

Hatred, battle, and ftrife;
Nothing but leaves!

Nothing but leaves; no garnered sheaves
Of life's fair, ripened grain;

Words, idle words, for earnest deeds;
We sow our seeds. -lo! tares and weeds;

We reap with toil and pain
Nothing but leaves !

Nothing but leaves; memory weaves
No veil to screen the past:

As we retrace our weary way,
Counting each loft and miffpent day-
We find, sadly, at last,
Nothing but leaves !

And fhall we meet the Mafter so,
Bearing our withered leaves?

The Saviour looks for perfect fruit,-
We stand before him, humbled, mute;
Waiting the words he breathes,-
"Nothing but leaves?"


W Why doft thou long to go?

THY doft thou talk of death, laddie?

The Mafter that hath placed thee here
Hath work for thee to do.

Why dost thou talk of heaven, laddie?
What would'st thou say in heaven,
When the Mafter asks, "What haft thou done
With the talents I have given?

"I gave thee wealth and power,

And the poor around thee spread : Where are the fheep and lambs of mine That thou haft reared and fed?

"I gave thee wit and eloquence Thy brethren to persuade :

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