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Within the breast bids purest rapture rise;
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies.

When the storm thickens, and the thunder rolls,
When the earth trembles to the’ affrighted poles,
The virtuous mind nor doubts nor fears assail;
For storms are zephyrs, or a gentler gale.
And when disease obstructs the labouring

breath; When the heart sickens, and each pulse is death; E’en then Religion shall sustain the just, Grace their last moments, nor desert their dust.

August 5, 1748.

LINES UNDER A SUNDIAL

IN THE CHURCHYARD AT THORNBY.

MARK well my shade, and seriously attend
The silent lesson of a common friend
Since time and life speed hastily away,
And neither can recall the former day;
Improve each fleeting hour before 'tis pass’d,
And know, each fleeting hour may be thy last.

THE NIGHT PIECE.
HARK! the prophetic raven brings
My summons on his boding wings;
The birds of night my fate foretell,
The prescient deathwatch sounds my knell.
A solemn darkness spreads the tomb,
But terrors haunt the midnight gloom;
Methinks a browner horror falls,
And silent spectres sweep the walls.

Tell me, my soul! oh, tell me why
The faltering tongue, the broken sigh?
Thy manly cheeks bedew'd with tears,
Tell me, my soul! from whence these fears?
When conscious Guilt arrests the mind,
Avenging Furies stalk behind;
And sickly Fancy intervenes,
To dress the visionary scenes.
Jesus! to thee I 'll fly for aid,
Propitious Sun, dispel the shade;
All the pale family of fear
Would vanish, were my Saviour here.
No more imagined spectres walk,
No more the doubtful echoes talk;
Soft zephyrs fan the neighbouring trees,
And meditation mounts the breeze.
How sweet these sacred hours of rest,
Fair portraits of the virtuous breast,
Where lawless lust and passions rudem
And folly never dare intrude!
Be others' choice the sparkling bowl,
And mirth, the poison of the soul;
Or midnight dance, and public shows,
Parents of sickness, pains, and woes.
A nobler joy my thoughts design;
Instructive solitude, be mine;
Be mine that silent calm repast
A cheerful conscience to the last.
That tree which bears immortal fruit,
Without a canker at the root;
That friend which never fails the just,
When other friends desert their trust.

Come then, my soul! be this thy guest; And leave to knaves and fools the rest. With this thou ever shalt be gay, And night shall brighten into day. With this companion in the shade, Surely thou couldst not be dismay'd; But if thy Saviour here were found, All Paradise would bloom around. Had I a firm and lasting faith, To credit what the Almighty saith; I could defy the midnight gloom, And the pale monarch of the tomb. Though tempests drive me from the shore, And floods descend, and billows roar; Though death appears in every form, My little bark should brave the storm. Then if my God required the life Of brother, parent, child, or wife; Lord! I should bless the stern decree, And give my dearest friend to thee. Amidst the various scenes of ills, Each stroke some kind design fulfils; And shall I murmur at my God, When sovereign love directs the rod ? Peace, rebel thoughts—I'll not complain; My father's smiles suspend my pain; Smiles-that a thousand joys impart, And pour

the balm that heals the smart. Though Heaven afflicts, I'll not repine, Each heartfelt comfort still is mine; Comforts that shall o’er death prevail, And journey with me through the vale.

Dear Jesus! smooth that rugged way,
And lead me to the realms of day,
To milder skies, and brighter plains,
Where everlasting sunshine reigns.

SUNDAY HYMN,

IN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS.

This is the day the Lord of life

Ascended to the skies; My thoughts, pursue the lofty theme,

And to the heavens arise.

Let no vain cares divert

my

mind From this celestial road; Nor all the honours of the earth

Detain soul from God.

my

Think of the splendours of that place,

The joys that are on high; Nor meanly rest contented here,

With worlds beneath the sky. Heaven is the birthplace of the saints,

To heaven their souls ascend;
The' Almighty owns his favourite race,

As father and as friend.
Oh! may these lovely titles prove

My comfort and defence,
When the sick couch shall be my lot,

And death shall call me hence.

PSALM XIII.

OFFENDED Majesty! how long

Wilt thou conceal thy face? How long refuse my fainting soul

The succours of thy grace? While sorrow wrings my bleeding heart,

And black despondence reigns; Satan exults at my complaints,

And triumphs o'er my pains. Let thy returning spirit, Lord!

Dispel the shades of night; Smile on my poor deserted soul,

My God! thy smiles are light. While scoffers at thy sacred word

Deride the pangs I feel,
Deem my religion insincere,

Or call it useless zeal.
Yet will I ne'er repent my choice,

I'll ne'er withdraw my trust;
I know thee, Lord, a powerful friend,

And kind and wise and just.
To doubt Thy goodness would be base

Ingratitude in me;
Past favours shall renew my hopes,
And fix

my

faith in Thee. Indulgent God! my willing tongue

Thy praises shall prolong;
For oh! Thy bounty fires my breast,

And rapture swells my song.

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