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Proclaim the glories of your Lord,
Dispers’d through all the heavenly street, Whose boundless treasures can afford
So rich a pavement for his feet.
Thou Heav'n of heavens, supremely bright,
Fair palace of the court divine, Where, with inimitable light,
The Godhead condescends to shine.
Praise thou thy great Inhabitant,
Who scatters lovely beams of grace On every angel, every saint,
Nor veils the lustre of his face.
O God of glory, God of love,
Thou art the Sun that makes our days: With all thy shining works above,
Let earth and dust attempt thy praise.
THE WELCOME MESSENGER.
LORD, when we see a saint of thine
Lie gasping out his breath,
Smiling and pleas'd in death :
How we could e'en contend to lay
Our limbs upon that bed! We ask thine envoy to convey
Out spirits in his stead.
Our souls are rising on the wing,
To venture in his place; For when grim death has lost his sting,
He has an angel's face.
Jesus, then purge my crimes away,
'Tis guilt creates my fears, 'Tis guilt gives death its fierce array,
And all the arms it bears.
Oh! if my threatening sins were gone,
And death had lost his sting, I could invite the angel on,
And chide his lazy wing.
Away these interposing days,
And let the lovers meet; The angel has a cold embrace,
But kind, and soft, and sweet.
I'd leap at once my seventy years,
I'd rush into his arms, And lose my breath, and all my cares,
Amidst those heavenly charms.
Joyful I'd lay this body down,
And leave the lifeless clay, Without a sigh, without a groan,
And stretch and soar away.
ALMIGHTY Maker, God !
How wondrous is thy name! Thy glories how diffus'd abroad
Through the creation's frame!
Nature in every dress
Her humble homage pays,
Thine undissembled praise.
In native white and red
The rose and lily stand, And free from pride their beauties spread,
To show thy skilful hand.
The lark mounts up the sky
With unambitious song,
Upon her artless tongue.
My soul would rise and sing
To her Creator too,
And pay the worship due.
But pride, that busy sin,
Spoils all that I perform ;
And swells a haughty worm.
Thy glories I abate,
Or praise thee with design; Some of thy favours I forget,
Or think the merit mine.
The very songs I frame,
Are faithless to thy cause,
To build their own applause.
Create my soul anew,
Else all my worship’s vain; This wretched heart will ne'er be true,
Until 'tis form'd again.
Descend, celestial fire,
And seize me from above,
A sacrifice to love.
Let joy and worship spend
The remnant of my days,
In sweet perfumes of praise.
PARTLY IMITATED FROM A FRENCH SONNET OF
Happy the feet that shining Truth has led
Without a veil, without a shade,
Our senses cheat us with the pressing crowds
Our senses cast a thousand clouds
To fence and guard by rule and rote ! (not. Our God will never charge us, that we knew them
Touch, heavenly Word, O touch these curious souls; Since I have heard but one soft hint from thee, From all the vain opinions of the schools
(That pageantry of knowing fools) I feel my powers releas’d, and stand divinely free.
'Twas this Almighty Word that all things made,
The ground of all things, and their head, [stand. The circle where they move, and centre where they