Song of the Angels at Bethlehem.
HARK! what mean those holy voices,
Sweetly sounding through the skies?
Lo! the angelic host rejoices;
Heavenly hallelujahs rise.
Listen to the wond'rous story,
Which they carol in the sky:
“Glory, in the highest, glory;
Glory be to God most high!
Peace on earth, good will from heaven,
Reaching far as man is found;
Souls redeem'd and sins forgiven;
Loud our golden harps shall sound.
Christ is born, the Great Anointed;
Heaven and earth his praises sing!
O receive, whom God appointed,
For your Prophet, Priest, and King.
Hasten, mortals, to adore Him!
Learn his name, and taste his joy;
Till in heaven ye sing before Him,
Glory be to God most high!"
Beavenly-Mindedness.
O FROM the world's vile slavery,
Almighty Saviour! set me free;
And, as my treasure is above,
Be there my thoughts, be there my
But oft, alas! too well I know
My thoughts, my love, are fix'd below:
In every lifeless prayer I find
The heart unmoved, the absent mind.
O what that frozen heart can move,
That melts not at the Saviour's love?
What can that sluggish spirit raise,
That will not sing the Saviour's praise?
Yet earthly pleasure still hath charms,
And earthly love my bosom warms;
Though cold my heart to love divine,
And cold, my bleeding Lord, to thine.
Lord, draw my best affections hence,
Above this.world of sin and sense;
Cause them to soar beyond the skies,
And rest not, till to Thee they rise!
MRS. COTTERILL.
DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me,
When village bells awake the day;
And by their sacred minstrelsy,
Call me from earthly cares away.
And dear to me the winged hour,
Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord
To feel devotion's soothing power,
And catch the manna of thy word.
And dear to me the loud Amen
Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells, and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God.
And dear the simple melody,
Sung with the pomp of rustic art;
That holy, heavenly harmony,
The music of a thankful heart.
In secret I have often pray'd,
And still the anxious tear would fall;
But, on the sacred altar laid,
The fire descends and dries them all.
Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in its six days' chain,
This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.
Then, dear to me, the Sabbath morn,
The village bells, the shepherd's voice,
These oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice.
Go, man of pleasure, strike the lyre,
Of Sabbaths broken sing the charms;
Ours are the prophet's car of fire,
Which bears us to a Father's arms.
WHEN by a good man's grave I muse alone,
Methinks an angel sits upon the stone:
Like those of old on that thrice hallow'd night,
Who sat and watch'd in raiment heavenly bright,
And with a voice inspiring joy, not fear,
Says, pointing upwards-that he is not here-
That he is risen!
Prayer Answered by Affliction.
I ASK'D the Lord, that I might grow
In faith, and love, and every grace;
Might more of his salvation know,
And seek more earnestly his face.
"Twas He who taught me thus to pray,
And He, I trust, has answer'd prayer ;
But it has been in such a way
As almost drove me to despair.
I hoped that in some favour'd hour,
At once He'd answer my request;
And by his love's constraining power,
Subdue my sins, and give me rest.
Instead of this He made me feel
The hidden evils of my heart;
And let the angry powers of hell
Assault my soul in every part.
Yea more, with His own hand He seem'd
Intent to aggravate my woe!
Cross'd all the fair designs I schemed,
Blasted my gourd, and laid me low.
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