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The humble man heaves up his head. | This stream doth water paradise,
It makes the angels sing,
One cordial drop revives my heart,
Such joys as are unspeakable,
Such hidden manna, hidden pearls,
As worldlings do not know :
From fancy 'tis conceal'd,
What thou Lord hast laid up for thine, But when they are to a tempest wrought; And hast to me reveal'd.
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,
The wings of Noah's dove !
Then should I fee far hence away,
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.
But from his ill-thatcht roofe. He brings
Joy to the followers of the Lord !
Thus saith the sure, the eternal word,
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
When the passions sink to rest.
'Tis a joy that, seated deep,
It spreads itself in boly deeds,
Stern and awful are its tones,
There is a stream which issues forth
From God's eternal throne,
Clear as the crystal stone !
A tenderer, softer form it wears,
"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 !
FIERCE passions discompose the mind,
In vain by reason and by rule,
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
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,
“ 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
The sword unsheathed, yet will not sell the Shall echo through the realms above,
When time shall be no more.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
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;
“ 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: