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A NIGHT-THOUGHT.

THERE is is a place unknown to me, Where saints,escap'd from mortal care, Their LORD's effulgent glory see,

Their LORD's triumphant glory share. As summer-seas in evening's calın,

Deep and serene is their repose; Heal'd is the soul;-the soothing balm Leaves but the memory of their woes. How sweet that promis'd rest appears,

To pilgrims in this world of strife; Who mark their thorny path with tears, While combating the cares of life.

So, on the deep, and tempest-toss'd,

The sailor views the threat'ning sky, With rigging torn, and rudder lost ;But, O, to feel the harbour nigh! Ye blest immortals, if a thought

Of anxious care can reach your breast, For us on earth indulge it not ;

Ye soon shall welcome us to rest! The hours of labour, from the night Redeeming, we the summons stay; Then, as on pinions of the light, Shall mount like you, and flee away! W.

ON THE TRUTH OF GOD. By BISHOP Ken.

I DAILY wrestled with my foe,
But wrestling still increas'd my woe;
I rarely could get ground,
Or 'scape without a wound:
Hell and the flatt'ring world combin'd
With the propensions of my carnal mind.
To GOD I daily sent my cries,
Of heavenly aid to gain supplies;
My prayer, my sigh, my groan,
Ne'er reach'd, I fear'd, the throne;
Yet God's veracity reliev'd

My troubled spirit, when I most was griev'd.

My GOD, my Gon, with tears I spake,
Au will thy pity me forsake!

I oft thy promise plead

To help in time of need;
In time of need, I long have pray'd ;
Ab, LORD! why is thy promise thus
delay'd?

My spirit here my sorrow check'd,
Bade me thy own good time expect;
Thou best, my GOD, dost know
Thy gifts when to bestow;
Like SIMEON, then, I acquiesc'd,
Yet liv'd in patient languor to be bless'd.
Dear LORD, I on a sudden felt
My spirit into sweetness melt;

What joys were in my breast
Can never be express'd;

Thou, LORD, art true, most true, I find, And thou in gracious rays hast on me shin'd.

Thy promises of hearing prayer,
Of pardon, and paternal care,

Of efficacious aids

When hell our souls invades,

Of bliss ecstatic, unconfin'd,

Of thy good SPIRIT dwelling in our

mind,

They all infallibly are true;

All are perform'd in seasons due :
My Gon, much sooner I
My thinking would deny,

Than of thy gracious promise doubt, The steady anchor of a soul devout. Thy promise, LORD, the more to bind, Thou hast thy oath eternal join'd;

From both to saints below
Strong consolations flow;
On both their humble hope they found,
In bliss supernal to be thron'd and
crown'd.

Whene'er to GOD I have recourse,
And of a promise feel the force,

Faith, which experience rears,
So fixes, so endears,

That Martyrs their high courage build
On certain sense of promises fulfill'd.

Thy truth, my GOD, thy saints revere, And learn of thee to be sincere ;

They with an heart entire To love divine aspire; And for probation of their zeal To thy omniscience humbly make appeal.

In things below man seeks repose,
Whose sweetest joys are bitt'rest woes;
Experiments he tries,

Finds all to be but lies;
His expectations they defeat;
The world appears a universal cheat.
Souls who in GoD alone confide
Have Truth Essential for their guide;
Illuminations clear

To heaven their spirits steer :
The Godhead, full of truth and grace,
Deigns in our flesh to guide all human

race.

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Of all the truths which from thee shine, Praise to the GoD of Truth! May I

LORD, thy philanthropy divine
Next to my heart still lies;
And turns my ghostly eyes

From all ill-natur'd schemes, design'd
To bound what thou hast to no bounds
confin'd.

His word read, ponder, and apply!

I may myself delude;

Satan may lies intrude;

Thee only, LORD, I can believe,

Who nor canst be deceiv'd, nor me deceive.

SIGHS OF AN AFFECTIONATE HEART.

On! is it true, that I no longer see
Affection's eye benignly bent on me?
Is there no heart to sympathize, to feel
Cares which disquiet,-pleasures which
may heal?

No!-Solitude and Silence are my own,-
And my heart tells me, I am all alone!
My Mother! can I e'er recall that name
So dear to infancy, (and still the same,)
Without reverting to those peaceful hours
When we, thy children, sported midst

the flowers,

Led by thy hand,-and innocently gay Bloom'd in thy eyes as fresh and fair as they?

Yes!-thou wert childhood's best and earliest friend,

And oft would'st kindly on our steps at-
tend

To breathe th' invigorating morning-air,
And taste the balmy sweets which revell'd

there;

And, as we mov'd along the quiet shade,
Would'st lead our minds to Him who all

things made;
And as th' extensive prospect open'd fair,
Would'st show how light and shade were
soften'd there;

Or guide the little hand which strove to

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Childhood! how dear thy recollections are!

And all collected form a beauteous star, Which I will gaze on with increas'd delight,

Till Time's horizon hides it from my sight;

And (each memorial wip'd from mem'ry's
page)

I fall unconscious on the lap of age,
No tear of tenderness to melt my eye,
And all forgetting,-all forgot,-l die!
Ye social pleasures which delight to fly
Round the dear spot where all my
treasures lie;

Ah! for one moment hither bend your

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ON TAKING FROM MY BOSOM A WITHERED ROSE-BUD AT NIGHT.

STAY, lovely flower, for thou hast been

My sweet companion all the day, And in my bosom hid, unseen,

Hast breath'd thy fragrant soul away. This morning from thy thorny stem,

Pleas'd with thy charms, I gather'd thee; Fearful some storm might injure them, And snatch my favourite flower from me.

And O, sweet Rose, like thee may I

On soft AFFECTION's bosom rest,
While bent on me her gentle eye

Shall speak her love, else unex-
press'd.

What, faded flower, I am to thee!
And when I die,-oh may she be

P. M.

A HYMN ON THE SABBATH.

By the REV. THOMAS GRINFIELD, M. A., late of Trinity College, Cambridge.

RETURN, thou wish'd and welcome

guest,

Thou day of holiness and rest; The best, the dearest, of the seven, Emblem and barbinger of heaven! Though not the Bridegroom, at his voice, Friend of the Bridegroom, still rejoice. Day doubly sanctified and bless'd; Thee the CREATOR Crown'd with rest From all his works; from all his woes On thee the SAVIOUR found repose. Thou dost with mystic voice rehearse The birth-day of an universe: Prophet, Historian, both, in scope, Thou speak'st to memory, and to hope. Amidst the earthliness of life, Vexation, vanity, and strife, SABBATH, how sweet thy holy calm Comes o'er the soul, like healing balm; Comes like the dew to fainting flowers, Renewing her enfeebled powers. Thine hours, how soothingly they glide, Thy morn, thy noon, thine eventide! All meet as brethren, mix as friends; Nature her general groan suspends;† No cares, no sin-born labours, tire E'en the poor brutes thou bidst respire: 'Tis almost as, restor'd awhile, Earth had resumed her Eden-smile. I love thy call of earthly bells, As on my waking ear it swells; 1 love to see thy pious train Seeking in groups the solemn fane : But most I love to mingle there, In sympathy of praise and prayer, And listen to that living word, Which breathes the SPIRIT OF THE LORD: Or, at the mystic table plac'd, Those eloquent mementos taste Of Thee, thou suffering LAMB Divine, Thy soul-refreshing bread and wine;

*John iii. 29.

Sweet viands, kindly given to suage
The faintness of the pilgrimage.

Sever'd from Salem, while unstrung
His harp on pagan willows hung,
What wonder if the PSALMIST pin'd,
As for her brooks the hunted hind!
The temple's humblest place should win,
Gladlier than all the pomp of sin;
Envied th' unconscious birds that sung
Around those altars, o'er their young;
And deem'd one heavenly sabbath worth
More than a thousand days of earth:
Well might his harp and heart rejoice
To hear, once more, that festal voice;
"Come, brethren, come, with glad
accord,

Haste to the dwelling of the LORD!"

But if on earth, so calm, so blest, The house of prayer, the day of rest; If to the spirit, when it faints, So sweet the assembly of his saints ;Here let us pitch our tent, (we say,) For, LORD, with thee 'tis good to stay! Yet from the mount we soon descend, Too soon our earthly sabbaths end; Cares of a work-day would return, And faint our hearts, and fitful, burn.— O think, my soul beyond compare, Think what a Sabbath must be there, § Where all is holy bliss, that knows Nor imperfection, nor a close; Where that innumerable throng Of saints and angels mingle song; Where, wrought with hands, no temples rise,

For God Himself their place supplies; Nor priests are needed in th' abode Where the whole hosts are priests to

GOD. ||

Think what a Sabbath there shall be, The Sabbath of Eternity!

Matt. xvii. 4.
Rev. xxi. 22; v. 10.

Heb. iv. 9.

Rom. viii. 22.

ELEGIAC LINES,

By HUDSON.

Florentem ut Cytisum vidit Sator almus, amavit ;

Tum dicens, dignor te meliore solo,

Transtulit in cœlum; et cœli vos edite campi,

Si quis amabilior flos adolescit ibi ?

IMITATED IN ENGLISH,

In reference to the death of a lovely Child, aged three years and five months.

As when in spring some rarer flower
Peeps, opening to the genial shower,
And Sol's all quickening rays,
The gardener, pleas'd, the floweret
spies,

And quick removes his beauteous
prize,

Some richer bed to grace :

So thee, thy Heavenly FATHER mild
Translated hence, O much lov'd child,
To Eden's better ground.
And say, ye kind angelic powers,
Amongst the choicest earth-sprung
flowers,

Perfuming your celestial bowers,
Is there a lovelier found?
Lincoln.

Printed by T. Cordeux, 14, City-Road, London.

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