I WILL PRAISE THE LORD AT ALL TIMES.

Winter has a joy for me,
While the Saviour's charms I read,
Lowly, meek, from blemish free,
In the snow-drop's pensive head.

Spring returns, and brings along
Life invigorating suns:
Hark! the turtle's plaintive song,
Seems to speak his dying groans.

Summer has a thousand charms,
All expressive of his worth;
'Tis his fun that lights and warms,
His the air that cools the earth.

What, has autumn left to say
Nothing of a Saviour's grace?
Yes, the beams of milder day
Tell me of his smiling face.

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THE LIGHT AND GLORY OF THE WORD.

Light appears with early dawn;
While the fun makes haste to rise,
See his bleeding beauties drawn
On the blushes of the skies.

Ev'ning, with a silent pace,
Slowly moving in the west,
Shews an emblem of his grace,
Points to an eternal rest.

THE LIGHT AND GLORY OF THE WORD,

The Spirit breathes upon the word,

And brings the truth to fight; Precepts and promises afford

A sanctifying light.

A glory gilds the sacred págę,

Majestic like the sun;
It gives a light to ev'ry age,

It gives, but borrows none.

The hand that gave it still supplies

The gracious light and heat;
His truths upon the nations rise,

They rise but never set.
Let everlasting thanks be thine,

For such a bright display,
As makes a world of darkness shine

With beams of heav'nly day.
My soul rejoices to pursue

The steps of Him I love;
Till glory breaks upon my view

In brighter worlds above.

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

Forc'd from home, and all its pleasures

Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,

O’er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me,

Paid my price in paltry gold;
But, though theirs they have enrolld me,

Minds are never to be sold.

Still in thought as free as ever,

What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to fever,

Me to torture, me to tak? Fleecy locks, and black complexion

Cannot forfeit nature's claim; Skins may differ, but affection

Dwells in white and black the fame.

Why did all-creating Nature

Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water,

Sweat of ours must drefs the foil Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,

Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have fmarted

For the sweets your canc affords.

Is there, as ye

sometimes tell us, Is there One who reigns on high? Has he bid you buy and sell us,

Speaking from his throne the sky? Afk bim, if your knotted scourges,

Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means which duty urges

Agents of his will to use ?

Hark! he answers-Wild tornadoes,

Strewing yonder fea with wrecks; Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,

Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations

Afric's sons should undergo, Fix'd their tyrant's habitations

Where his whirlwinds answer-No.

By our blood in Afric wasted,

Ere our necks receiv'd the chain; By the mis’ries we have tasted,

Crossing in your barks the main; By our suff'rings since ye brought us

To the man-degrading mart; All sustain'd by patience, taught us

Only by a broken heart:

Deem our nation brutes no longer
Till some reason

ye

shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger

Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose fordid dealings

Tarnish all your boasted pow'rs, Prove that you have human feelings,

Ere you proudly question ours !