And fhall that voice not startle me,

Nor ftir this stone - this heart of mine? No, Lord, till thou new-bore mine ear,

Thy voice is loft, I cannot hear.

Fountain of light, and living breath,

Whose mercies never fail nor fade,
Fill me with life that hath no death,

Fill me with light that hath no shade
Appoint the remnant of my days
To see thy power, and fing thy praise.

;

Lord, God of gods, before whose throne
Stand ftorms and fire, O what shall we
Return to heaven, that is our own,

When all the world belongs to thee?
We have no offering to impart,
But praises, and a wounded heart.

O Thou who fitteft in heaven, and seeft My deeds without, my thoughts within, Be thou my prince, be thou my priest, Command my soul, and cure my fin: How bitter my afflictions be

I care not, so I rise to Thee.

What I poffefs, or what I crave,

Brings no content, great God, to me, If what I would or what I have

Be not poffeffed and bleffed in Thee:

What I enjoy, oh, make it mine,
In making me that have it

Thine.

When winter-fortunes cloud the brows
Of summer-friends,-when eyes grow ftrange,
When plighted faith forgets its vows,-
When earth and all things in it change,
O Lord, thy mercies fail me never,-
When once Thou loveft, Thou loveft forever.
John Quarles, son of Francis, died in 1665.

U

PSALM CXXI.

P to those bright and gladsome hills, Whence flowes my weal and mirth, I look, and figh for Him who fills Unseen both heaven and earth.

He is alone my help and hope,
That I fhall not be moved;
His watchful eye is ever ope,
And guardeth his beloved.

The glorious God is my sole stay,
He is my sun and shade:

The cold by night, the heat by day,
Neither fhall me invade.

He keeps me from the spite of foes:
Doth all their plots controul;
And is a fhield, not reckoning those,
Unto my very soul.

Whether abroad amidst the crowd,
Or else within my door,

He is my pillar and my cloud,

Now and forevermore.

Henry Vaughan.

PSALM CXLVIII.

OME, oh! come, with sacred lays,
us

Let us sound the Almighty's praise;

Hither bring in true consent,

Heart, and voice, and inftrument.

Let the orpharion sweet,

With the harp and viol meet:

To your voices tune the lute:
Let not tongue nor ftring be mute:
Not a creature dumb be found,

That hath either voice or sound.

Let such things as do not live,
In ftill mufic praises give;
Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep
On the earth or in the deep;
Loud aloft your voices ftrain,
Beafts and monfters of the main;
Birds, your warbling treble fing;
Clouds, your peals of thunder ring;
Sun and moon exalted higher,
And you ftars, augment the quire.

Come, ye sons of human race,
In this chorus take your place,
And amid this mortal throng,
Be you mafters of the song.
Angels and celestial powers,
Be the nobleft tenor yours;
Let in praise of God the sound,
Run a never-ending round,

That our holy hymn may be
Everlasting as is He.

From the earth's vaft hollow womb,

Mufic's deepeft bafs fhall come.

Sea and floods, from fhore to fhore,
Shall the counter-tenor roar.

To this concert, when we fing,
Whistling winds, your descant bring:
Which may bear the sound above
Where the orb of fire doth move,

And so climb from sphere to sphere,
Till our song the Almighty hear.

So fhall He from heaven's high tower
On the earth his bleffing fhower;
All this huge wide orb we see,
Shall one quire, one temple be;

There our voices we will rear,
Till we fill it everywhere:
And enforce the fiends that dwell

In the air, to fink to hell.

Then, oh! come, with sacred lays,

Let us sound the Almighty's praise.

George Wither. 1588-1677.

PSALM XXIII.

APPY me! O happy sheep

HA

Whom my God vouchsafes to keep;

Even my God, even he it is

That points me to these ways of blifs;
On whose paftures cheerful Spring
All the year doth fit and fing,
And, rejoicing, smiles to see
Their green backs wear his livery.
When my wayward breath is flying
He calls home my soul from dying,