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The humble man heaves up his head. | This stream doth water paradise,
Like some rich vale

It makes the angels sing,
Whose fruits ne'er faile,

One cordial drop revives my heart,
With flowers, with corne, and vines o'er- Hence all my joys do spring.

spread;
Nor doth complaine

Such joys as are unspeakable,
O'erflowed by an ill-season'd raine, And full of glory too ;
Or battered by a storme of haile.

Such hidden manna, hidden pearls,

As worldlings do not know :
Like a tall ship with treasure fraught, Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,
He, the seas cleere

From fancy 'tis conceal'd,
Doth quiet steere :

What thou Lord hast laid up for thine, But when they are to a tempest wrought; And hast to me reveal'd.

More gallantly

He spreads his saile, and doth more high I see thy face, I hear thy voice, By swelling of the waves appeare.

I taste thy sweetest love ;

My soul doth leap; but 0, for wings,
For the Almighty joyes to force

The wings of Noah's dove !
The glorious tide

Then should I fee far hence away,
Of human pride

Leaving this world of sin : To the lowest ebbe, that o'er his course Then should my Lord put forth his hand, (Which rudely bore

And kindly take me in.
Down what opposed it heretofure)
His feeblest enemies may stride.

But from his ill-thatcht roofe. He brings
The cottager

BARBAULD.
And doth preferre
Him to the adored state of kings :

Joy to the followers of the Lord !
He bids that hand

Thus saith the sure, the eternal word,
Which labour hath made rough and I Not of earth the joy it brings,
tann'd,

Tempered in celestial springs. The all-commanding sceptre beare.

'Tis the joy of pardoned sin, Let then the mighty cease to boast

When conscience cries, 'Tis well within ;) Their boundless sway;

'Tis the joy that fills the breast
Since in their sea

When the passions sink to rest.
Few sayle, but by some storme are lost.
Let them themselves,

'Tis a joy that, seated deep,
Beware, for they are their own shelves: Leaves not when we sigh and weep;
Man still himself hath cast away.

It spreads itself in boly deeds,
With sorrow sighs, in pity bleeds.

JOY.

Stern and awful are its tones,
When the patriot martyr groans,
Aud the throbbing pulse beats high,
To rapture, mixed with agony.

ANON.

There is a stream which issues forth

From God's eternal throne,
And from the Lamb, a living stream,

Clear as the crystal stone !

A tenderer, softer form it wears,
Dissolved in love, dissolved in tears,
When humble souls a Saviour greet,
And sinners clasp the mercy-seat.

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"Tis joy e'en here! a budding flower, Struggling with shows, and storm

shower, And waits the moment to expand, Transplanted to its native land !

CONTENTMENT.

COWPER.

FIERCE passions discompose the mind,
As tempests vex the sea;
But calm content and peace we find,
When, Lord, we turn to thee.

In vain by reason and by rule,
We try to bend the will ;
For nune but in the Saviour's school
Can learn the heavenly skill.

He is the freeman whom the truth makes

free, And all are slaves beside; there's not a chain, That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm, Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Sampson bis green

withs. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and though poor, perhaps com

par'd With those whose mansions glitter in bis

sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers : His t'enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial gratitude inspir'd, Can lift to heav'n an unpresumptuvus eye, And smiling say— My Father made them

all !” Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an empbasis of int'rest his, Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted

mind, With worthy thoughts of that unwearied

love, That plann'd and built, and still upholds a

world, So cluth'd with beauty for rebellious man

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POLLOK.

Tis I appoint thy daily lot, And I do all things well; Thou soon sbalt leave this wretched spot, And rise with me to dwell.

In life my grace shall strength supply,
Proportion'd to thy day ;
At death thou still sbalt find me nigh,
To wipe thy tears away."

“ He is the freeman whom the truth makes

free," Who first of all, the bands of Satan breaks; Who breaks the bands of sin; and for his

soul, In spite of fools, consulteth seriously ; In spite of fashion, perseveres in good ; In spite of wealth or poverty, upright; Who does as reasun, not as fancy bids; Who hears temptation sing, and yet turns

not Aside; sees sin bedeck her flowery bed, And yet will not go up; feels at his heart

Thus I, who once my wretched days
In vain repininy spent,
Tauglit in my Saviour's school of grace,
Have learn'd to be content.

The sword unsheathed, yet will not sell the Shall echo through the realms above,
truth;

When time shall be no more.
Who having power, bas not the will to hurt;
Who feels asham'd to be, or have a slave ;
Whom nought makes blush but sin, fears
nought but God;

PILGRIMAGE.
Who, finally, in strong integrity
Of soul, midst want, or riches, or disgrace,

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
Uplifted, calmly sat, and heard the waves

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, of stormy folly breaking at his feet,

| My staffe of faith to walk upon, Now shrill with praise, now hoarse with foul

My scrip of joye, (immortal diet!) reproach,

My bottle of salvation, And both despised sincerely ; seeking this

My gown of glory, hope's true gage; Alone, The approbation of his God,

---And thus I take my pilgrimage. Which still with conscience witnessed to his peace.

Blood must be my body's balmer, This, this is freedom, such as angels use,

While my soul, like peaceful palmer, And kindred to the liberty of God.

Travelleth tow'rds the land of heaven;
Other balm will not be given.

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“ Oft do our eyes with joy o'erflow, Thy beauties rising in my sight, And oft are bathed in tears;

Dividely sweet, divinely bright, Yet nought but heaven our hopes can raise, With rapture fill my breast; And nought but sin our fears.

Though robb'd of all my worldly store,

In thee I never can be poor, The flowers that spring along the road, ! But must be ever blest.

We scarcely stoop to pluck; We walk o'er beds of shining ore,

Nor waste one wishful look:

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