Hence, ye profane: My Saviour hears;
While yet I speak, he wipes my tears,
Accepts my pray'r, and bids each foe
With shame their vain attempts forego,
And, struck with horror from on high,
In wild disorder backward fly.

MERRICK.

AN ASPIRATION.

If 'twere but to retire from woe,
To undisturb'd, eternal rest-
How passing sweet to sleep below,
On nature's fair and flow'ry breast!

But when faith's finger points on high,
From death's decaying, dismal cell;
O, 'tis a privilege to die-

To dream of bliss ineffable!

In balmy sleep our eyes to close,

When life's last sunshine gilds our even;
And then to wake from long repose,
When dawns the glorious day of heaven!

BOWRING.

VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.

WHERE then shall hope and fear their objects find, Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind?

Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,

Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?

Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?

Inquirer, cease, petitions yet remain,

Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain.
Still raise, for good, the supplicating voice,

But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice;
Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious prayer.
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest

Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best :
Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill,
For patience sov'reign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind nature's signal for retreat;
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain,
These goods he grants, who grants the power to

gain;

With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,

And makes the happiness she does not find.

JOHNSON.

THE VIIIth PSALM TRANSLATED.

O KING eternal and divine!

The world is thine alone :
Above the stars thy glories shine,
Above the heavens thy throne.

How far extends thy mighty name!
Where'er the sun can roll,

That sun thy wonders shall proclaim,
Thy deeds from pole to pole.

The infant's tongue shall speak thy power,
And vindicate thy laws;

The tongue that never spoke before,
Shall labour in thy cause.

For when I lift my thoughts and eyes,
And view the heavens around,
Yon stretching waste of azure skies,
With stars and planets crown'd.

Who in their dance attend the Moon,
The empress of the night,
And pour around her silver throne
Their tributary light:

Lord! what is mortal man, that he
Thy kind regard should share?
What is his son, who claims from thee,
And challenges thy care?

Next to the blest Angelic kind,
Thy hands created man,
And this inferior world assign'd
To dignify his span.

Him all revere, and all obey
His delegated reign;

The flocks that through the valley stray,
The herds that graze the plain.

The furious tiger speeds his flight,
And trembles at his power;

In fear of his superior might,
The lions cease to roar.

Whatever horrid monsters tread

The paths beneath the sea,

Their king, at awful distance, dread,
And sullenly obey.

O Lord! how far extends thy name!
Where'er the sun can roll,

That sun thy wonders shall proclaim;
Thy deeds from pole to pole.

HYMN.

THE glorious armies of the sky
To thee, Almighty King,
Triumphant anthems consecrate,
And hallelujahs sing.

But still their most exalted flights
Fall vastly short of thee:
How distant then from human praise
Must thy perfections be!

Yet how, my God, shall I refrain,
When to my ravish'd sense
Each creature every where around
Displays thy excellence!

The active lights that shine above,
In their eternal dance,
Reveal their skilful Maker's praise
With silent elegance.

The blushes of the morn confess
That thou art still more fair,
When in the East its beams revive,
To gild the fields of air.

The fragrant, the refreshing breeze
Of ev'ry flow'ry bloom

In balmy whispers own, from Thee
Their pleasing odours come.

PITT.

The singing birds, the warbling winds,
And waters murm'ring fall,

To praise the first Almighty Cause
With diff'rent voices call.

Thy num'rous works exalt thee thus,
And shall I silent be?

No; rather let me cease to breathe,
Than cease from praising Thee!

MRS. ROWE.

HYMN.

BEHOLD, where, breathing love divine,
Our dying Master stands!

His weeping followers, gath'ring round,
Receive his last commands.

From that mild Teacher's parting lips
What tender accents fell!
The gentle precept which he gave
Became its author well.

"Blest is the man whose soft'ning heart

"Feels all another's pain:

"To whom the supplicating eye

"Was never rais'd in vain.

"Whose breast expands with gen'rous warmth

"A stranger's woes to feel;

"And bleeds in pity o'er the wound "He wants the power to heal.

"He spreads his kind supporting arms "To ev'ry child of grief;

"His secret bounty largely flows,

"And brings unask'd relief.