Seven times, Oh Lord! 1 pardon'd them, seven times they sinn'd again :

They practise still to work me wo, they triumph in my pain;

But let them dread my vengeance now, to just re

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sentment driven !

Forgive!" the voice of thunder spake, never be forgiven !"

TWENTY-THIRD SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

FROM foes that would the land devour ;
From guilty pride, and lust of power;
From wild sedition's lawless hour;

From yoke of slavery;

From blinded zeal by faction led;
From giddy change by fancy bred ;
From poisonous error's serpent head,

Defend, oh God! with guardian hand,
The laws and ruler of our land,

And grant our church thy grace to stand

In faith and unity!

The Spirit's help of thee we crave,

That thou whose blood was shed to save,

May'st, at thy second coming, have

A flock to welcome thee!

TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

То conquer and to save, the Son of God
Came to his own in great humility,

Who wont to ride on cherub wings abroad,
And round him wrap the mantle of the sky.
The mountains bent their necks to form his road;
The clouds dropt down their fatness from on high;
Beneath his feet the wild waves softly flow'd,
And the winds kissed his garment tremblingly!

The grave unbolted half his grisly door,

(For darkness and the deep had heard his fame,
Nor longer might their ancient rule endure ;)
The mightiest of mankind stood hush'd and tame :
And, trooping on strong wing, his angels came
To work his will, and kingdom to secure :
No strength he needed save his Father's name ;
Babes were his heralds, and his friends the poor!

FOR ST. JAMES' DAY.

THOUGH Sorrows rise and dangers roll
In waves of darkness o'er my soul,
Though friends are false and love decays,
And few and evil are my days,

Though conscience, fiercest of my foes,
Swells with remembered guilt my woes,
Yet ev'n in nature's utmost ill,

I love thee, Lord! I love thee still!

Though Sinai's curse, in thunder dread, Peals o'er mine unprotected head,

Το

And memory points, with busy pain,
grace and mercy given in vain,
Till nature, shrieking in the strife,
Would fly to hell, to 'scape from life,
Though every thought has power to kill,
I love thee, Lord! I love thec still!

Oh, by the pangs thyself hast borne,
The ruffian's blow, the tyrant's scorn;
By Sinai's curse, whose dreadful doom
Was buried in thy guiltless tomb :

By these my pangs, whose healing smart
Thy grace hath planted in my heart;

I know, I feel, thy bounteous will!

Thou lovest me, Lord! thou lovest me still!