SEE the fair and fragrant flowers Peeping their green mantles thro', Weeping 'neath the passing showers, Smiling 'neath the sudden blue; See their lovely colours blended, Brought from many a varying clime, And with careful nurture tended, Till they reach their fullest prime.
So the Church, a water'd garden, Bounded by the Almighty's power, Feels his mercy's gracious pardon, Feels his Spirit's gentle shower; So from many a scatter'd nation Are his chosen brought with care, Given the life of his Salvation, Rooted, grounded, 'stablished there!
O! may we indeed be taken
From the world's polluted waste,
By his presence ne'er forsaken, All his vital spirit taste;
Where the streams of life are flowing, Land by saints and prophets trod,
May we still be freshly growing
In the garden of our God!
He is the happy man, whose life e'en now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come: Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleased with it, and were he free to choose, Would make his state his choice; whose peace the fruit
Of virtue, and whose virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more illustrious in her view: And occupied as earnestly as she,
Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; He seeks not her's for he has proved them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore, in contemplation is his bliss.
Whose pow'r is such, that whom she lifts from earth, She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,
And shows him glories yet to be reveal'd.
O GOD! thy name they well may praise, Who to the deep go down,
And trace the wonders of thy ways,
Where rocks and billows frown.
If glorious be that awful deep, No human power can bind,
What then art Thou, who bid'st it keep, Within its bounds confined?
Let heaven and earth in praise unite,
Eternal praise to Thee,
Whose word can raise the tempest's might,
Or still the raging sea.
THE question is, not if our earthly race Was once enlightened by a flash of grace; If we, having a place on Zion's hill,
Called Jesus, "Lord," but if we did his will? What if the stranger, sick, and captive, lie Naked and hungry, and we pass them by; Or do but some extorted pittance throw, To save our credit, not to ease their woe? Or strangers to the charity whence springs The liberal heart, devising liberal things, We, cumbered ever with our own pursuits, To others leave the labour and its fruits; Pleading excuses for the crumb we save, For want of faith to cast it on the wave Shall we go forth with joy to meet our Lord, Enter his kingdom, reap his full reward? Can such his good and faithful servants be, Blessed of the Father?-Read his Word and see. JANE TAYLOR.
THE fly around the candle wheels, Enjoys the sport, and gaily sings, Till nearer, nearer borne, he feels
The flame like lightning on his wings; Then struggling in the gulf below he lies, And limb by limb, scorched miserably, dies.
So thou: not swifter o'er the course, The racer hastens to the goal,
Than thou, with blind and headlong force, Art running on, to lose thy soul;
Then, though the world were won, how dear the
Can the whole world avail a spirit lost?
SEE how beneath the moonbeam's smile Yon little billow heaves its breast, And foams and sparkles for awhile, And murmuring, then subsides to rest.
Thus man, the sport of bliss and care, Rises on time's eventful sea, And having swelled a moment there, Thus melts into eternity.
A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY.
AND art Thou come, dear Saviour? Hath thy love Thus made Thee stoop, and leave thy throne above The lofty heavens, and thus thyself to dress In dust, to visit mortals? Could no less A condescension serve ?—And after all, The mean reception of a cratch*-a stall?
Dear Lord, I'll fetch Thee thence.-I have a room, 'Tis poor, but 'tis my best; if Thou wilt come Within so poor a cell, where I would fain, Mine, and the world's Redeemer entertain- I mean my heart: 'tis filthy I confess ; And will not mend thy lodging, Lord, unless Thou send before thy messenger-I mean Thy pure and purging grace, to make it clean," And sweep its inmost corners: then I'll try To wash it also with a weeping eye.
And when 'tis swept and wash'd, I then will go, And with thy leave, I'll fetch some flowers that grow In thine own garden-Faith and Love to Thee. With these I'll dress it up, and these shall be My Rosemary and Bays: yet when my best Is done, the room's not fit for such a Guest. But here's the cure-thy presence, Lord, alone, Will make the stall a court-the cratch a throne. SIR MATTHEW HALE.
A Cratch is a frame out of which cattle are fed with hay
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