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There's nothing round these painted skies,
Or round this dusty clod;

Nothing, my soul, that's worth thy joys,
Or lovely as thy God.

"Tis heav'n on earth to taste his love,
To feel his quick'ning grace;
And all the heav'n I hope above

Is but to see his face.

Why move my years in slow delay ?

O God of ages! why?

Let the spheres cleave, and mark my way
To the superior sky.

Dear Sov'reign, break these vital strings
That bind me to my clay;
Take-take me, Uriel, on thy wings,
And stretch and soar away.

SELF-CONSECRATION.

IT grieves me, Lord, it grieves me sore,
That I have liv'd to thee no more,

And wasted half my days;

My inward pow'rs shall burn and flame

With zeal and passion for thy name,

I would not speak but for my God, nor move but to his praise.

What are my eyes but aids to see

The Glories of the Deity

Inscrib'd with beams of light,

On flow'rs and stars? Lord, I behold

The shining azure, green, and gold;

But when I try to read thy name a dimness veils my sight.

Mine ears are rais'd when Virgil sings
Sicilian swains, or Trojan kings,

And drink the music in:

Why should the trumpet's brazen voice,

Or oaten reed awake my joys,

And yet my heart so senseless lie when sacred hymns begin?

Change me, O God! my flesh shall be
An instrument of song to thee,

And thou the notes inspire:

My tongue shall keep the heav'nly chime,
My cheerful pulse shall beat the time,

And sweet variety of sound shall in thy praise conspire.

The dearest nerve about my heart,
Should it refuse to bear a part

With my melodious breath,

I'd tear away the vital chord,

A bloody victim to my Lord,

And live without that impious string, or show my zeal in

death.

THE PENITENT PARDONED.

HENCE from my soul, my sins, depart,
Your fatal friendship now I see;
Long have you dwelt too near my heart,
Hence, to eternal distance flee.

Ye gave my dying Lord his wound,
Yet I caress'd your viperous brood,
And in my heart-strings lapp'd you round-
You, the vile murderers of my God.

Black heavy thoughts, like mountains, roll
O'er my poor breast, with boding fears,
And crushing hard my tortur'd soul,
Wring through my eyes the briny tears.

Forgive my treasons, Prince of Grace-
The bloody Jews were traitors too,
Yet thou hast pray'd for that curs'd race,
"Father, they know not what they do!"

Great advocate! look down and see

A wretch, whose smarting sorrows bleed: O plead the same excuse for me; For, Lord, I knew not what I did.

Peace, my complaints; let every groan
Be still, and silence wait his love:
Compassions dwell amidst his throne,
And through his inmost bowels move.

Lo, from the everlasting skies
Gently, as morning-dews distil,
The dove immortal downward flies,
With peaceful olive in his bill.

How sweet the voice of pardon sounds!
Sweet the relief to deep distress!

1 feel the balm that heals my wounds
And all my powers adore the grace.

THE HUMBLE ENQUIRY.

A FRENCH SONNET IMITATED.

Grand Dieu, tes Jugemens, &c.

GRACE rules below, and sits enthron'd above,

How few the sparks of wrath! how slow they move! And drop and die in boundless seas of love!

But me, vile wretch! should pitying love embrace
Deep in its ocean, hell itself would blaze,

And flash, and burn me thro' the boundless space.

Yea, Lord, my guilt to such a vastness grown
Seems to confine thy choice to wrath alone,
And calls thy power to vindicate thy throne.

Thine honour bids, avenge thine injur'd name,
Thy slighted loves a dreadful glory claim,
While my moist tears might but incense thy flame,

Should heav'n grow black, almighty thunder roar,
And vengeance blast me, I could plead no more,
But own thy justice dying, and adore.

Yet can those bolts of death, that cleave the flood
To reach a rebel, pierce this sacred shroud,
Ting'd in the vital stream of my Redeemer's blood.

A HYMN OF PRAISE FOR THREE GREAT

SALVATIONS, viz.

1. From the Spanish Invasion, 1588;-2. From the Gunpowder-Plot, Nov. 5, 1605;-3. From Popery and Slavery, by King William, of glorious memory, who landed Nov. 5, 1698.

Composed, Nov. 5, 1695.

INFINITE God, thy counsels stand
Like mountains of eternal brass,
Pillars to prop our sinking land,
Or guardian rocks to break the seas.

From pole to pole thy name is known,
Thee a whole heaven of angels praise,
Our labouring tongues would reach thy throne
With the loud triumphs of thy grace.

Part of thy church, by thy command,
Stands rais'd upon the British isles;
"There," said the Lord, "to ages stand,
Firm as the everlasting hills."

In vain the Spanish ocean roar'd;
Its billows swelled against our shore,
Its billows sunk beneath thy word,
With all the floating war they bore.

"Come," said the sons of bloody Rome,

"Let us provide new arms from hell:"
And down they digg'd thro' earth's dark womb,
And ransack'd all the burning cells.

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