CHARLES WESLEY. 1708–1788.

HYMN OF PRAISE.

Lo! God is here! let us adore,

And own how dreadful is this place: Let all within us feel his power,

And silent bow before his face! Who know his power, his grace who prove, Serve him with awe, with rev’rence love. Lo! God is here! him day and night

Th' united choirs of angels sing : To him, enthroned above all height,

Heaven's host their noblest praises bring : Disdain not, Lord, our meaner song, Who praise thee with a stamm’ring torgue. Gladly the toils of earth we leave,

Wealth, pleasure, fame, for thee alone;
To thee our will, soul, flesh, we give,

Oh take! oh seal them for thine own!
Thou art the God, thou art the Lord :
Be thou by all thy works adored !
Being of beings! may our praise

Thy courts with grateful fragrance fill:
Still may we stand before thy face,

Still hear and do thy sovereign will:
To thee may all our thoughts arise,
Ceaseless, accepted sacrifice.
In thee we move: all things of thee

Are full, thou Source and Life of all:
Thou vast unfathomable Sea!

(Fall prostrate, lost in wonder fall, Ye sons of men! For God is Man!) All may we lose, so thee we gain!

As flowers their op'ning leaves display,
And glad drink in the solar fire,
So may we catch thy every ray,

So may thy influence us inspire;
Thou beam of the eternal beam!
Thou purging fire, thou quick'ning flame!

COMMUNION WITH GOD.

THOU hidden love of God, whose height,
Whose depth unfathom'd, no man knows:
I see from far thy bounteous light,
Inly I sigh for thy repose :
My heart is pain'd, nor can it be
At rest, till it finds rest in thee.

Thy secret voice invites me still

The sweetness of thy yoke to prove;
And fain I would; but though my will

Seem fix'd, yet wide my passions rove;
Yet hind'rances strow all the way;
I aim at thee, yet from thee stray.

'Tis mercy all, that thou hast brought

My mind to seek her peace in thee! Yet while I seek, but find thee not,

No peace my wand'ring soul shall see, Oh when shal all my wand'rings end, And all my steps to thee ward tend!

Is there a thing beneath the sun,

That strives with thee my heart to share! Ah, tear it thence, and reign alone, The Lord of every motion there: Then shall my neart from earth be free, When it hath found repose in thee.

Oh hide this self from me, that I

No more, but Christ in me may live! My vile affections crucify,

Nor let one darling lust survive! In all things nothing may I see, Nothing desire or seek but thee!

Oh Love, thy sovereign aid impart,

To save me from low-thoughted care; Chase this self-will through all my heart,

Through all its latent mazes there:
Make me thy duteous child, that I
Ceaseless may Abba, Father, cry.
Ah no; ne'er will I backward turn:

Thine wholly, thine alone I am:
Thrice happy he who views with scorn

Earth's toys, for thee his constant flame. Oh help that I may never move, From the bless'd footsteps of thy love! Each moment draw from earth away

My heart, that lowly waits thy call; Speak to my inmost soul, and say,

"I am thy Love, thy God, thy All!" To feel thy power, to hear thy voice, To taste thy love, be all my choice.

THOMAS CHATTERTON. 1752-1770.

MYNSTRELLE'S SONGE.
OH! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
Oh! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a rennynge ryver bee ;

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe-tree.
Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe;

Mie love, &c. Swote hys tongue as the throstle's note, Quycke ynn daunce as thought canne bee, Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote, Oh! hee lyes bie the wyllowe-tree :

Mie love, &c. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;

Mie love, &c. See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie ; Whyterre ys mie true love's shroude; Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Whyterre yanne

the

evenynge cloude;
Mie love, &c.
Heere uponne mie true love's grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee on hallie seyncte to save,
Al the celness of a mayde.

Mie love, &c.
Vol. 1.-Fr

Wythe my hondes I'll dente the brieres
Rounde hys hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie bodie still schalle bee.

Mie love, &c.
Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie ;
Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste bie daie.

Mie love, &c.
Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die ; I comme ; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

TOBIAS SMOLLETT.

1720-1771.

ODE TO INDEPENDENCE.

Thy spirit, Independence, let me share !
Lord of the lion-heart and eagle eye,
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.
Deep in the frozen regions of the North,
A goddess violated brought thee forth,
Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime
Hath bleach'd the tyrant's cheek in every varying
What time the iron-hearted Gaul,

[clime.
With frantic Superstition for his guide,
Arm'd with the dagger and the pall,
The sons of Woden to the field defied:
The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood,
In Heaven's name urged th' infernal blow,
And red the stream began to flow :
The vanquish'd were baptized with blood.