The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown,

In deepest adoration bends;

The weight of glory bows him down,

Then most when most his soul ascends; -Nearest the throne itself must be

The footstool of humility.

HE

DAVID.

Christopher Sharp.

sang of God, the mighty source

Of all things, that stupendous force,

On which all strength depends;

From whose bright arm, beneath whose eyes,

All period, power, and enterprise

Commences, reigns, and ends.

The world, the clustering spheres he made,

The glorious light, the soothing shade,

Dale, champaign, grove, and hill;

The multitudinous abyss,

Where secrecy remains in bliss ;

And wisdom hides her skill.

THE ADVENT.

Campbell.

WHEN Jordan hush'd his waters still,
And silence slept on Zion-hill;

When Bethl'hem's shepherds through the night,
Watch'd o'er their flocks by starry-light-

Hark! from the midnight hills around,

A voice of more than mortal sound,
In distant hallelujahs stole,

Wild murmuring o'er the raptured soul.

Then swift to every startled eye,

New streams of glory light the sky;
Heav'n bursts her azure gates, to pour
Her spirits to the midnight hour.

On wheels of light, on wings of flame,
The glorious hosts of Zion came;

High heav'n with songs of triumph rung
While thus they struck their harps and sung:-

O Zion! lift thy raptured eye,
The long-expected hour is nigh;
The joys of nature rise again,

The Prince of Salem comes to reign.

See, Mercy from her golden urn

Pours a rich stream to them that mourn!

Behold, she binds with tender care,
The bleeding bosom of despair!

He comes to cheer the trembling heart,
Bids Satan and his host depart :
Again the Day-star gilds the gloom,
Again the bow'rs of Eden bloom!

O Zion! lift thy raptured eye,
The long-expected hour is nigh;
The joys of nature rise again,

The Prince of Salem comes to reign.

MY GRAVE!

FAR from the city's ceaseless hum,
Hither let my relics come:

Lowly and lonely be my grave,

Fast by this streamlet's oozing wave,
Still to the gentle angler dear,

And heaven's fair face reflecting clear!

No rank luxuriance from the dead

Draw the

green turf above my head:

But cowslips, here and there, be found,
Sweet natives of the hallow'd ground,
Diffusing nature's incense round!
Kindly sloping to the sun

When his course is nearly run,
Let it catch his farewell beams,
Brief and pale, as best beseems;
But let the melancholy yew
(Still to the cemetery true)
Defend it from his noon-day ray,
Debarring visitant so gay:

And when the robin's boding song
Is hush'd the darkling boughs among,
There may the Spirit of the Wind
A heaven-rear'd tabernacle find,
To warble wild a vesper hymn,

To soothe my shade, at twilight dim!
Seldom let feet of man be there,

Save bending towards the house of prayer ;

Few human sounds disturb the calm,
Save words of grace, and solemn psalm!
Yet, would I not my humble tomb
Should wear an uninviting gloom,
As if there seem'd to hover near,
In fancy's ken, a thing of fear:

And, view'd with superstitious awe,
Be duly shunn'd, and scarcely draw
The sidelong glance of passer-by,
As haunt of sprite with blasting eye!
Or noted be by some sad token
Bearing a name in whispers spoken !
No! let some thoughtful schoolboy stray
Far from his giddy mates at play,
My secret place of rest explore,
There pore on page of classic lore:
Thither let hoary men of age
Perform a pensive pilgrimage,

And think, as o'er my turf they bend,
It woos them to their welcome end:
And let the woe-worn wand'ring one,
Blind to the rays of reason's sun,
Thither his weary way incline,
There catch a gleam of light divine :
But, chiefly, let the friend sincere
There drop a tributary tear;

There pause in musing mood, and all
The bygone hours of bliss recall,
Delightful hours! too fleetly flown!
By the heart's pulses only known!