Men, when raised to lofty stations, When He lived on earth abased, Could we bear from one another Oh! for grace our hearts to soften, We alas! forget too often, What a friend we have above: But when home our souls are brought, We will love Thee as we ought. THERE is a fountain fill'd with blood, The dying thief rejoiced to see Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood Till all the ransom'd church of God Newton. Ere since by faith I saw the stream, Then in a nobler, sweeter song, When this poor lisping, stamm'ring tongue, Lord, I believe thou hast prepared, For me, a blood-bought free reward, "Tis strung and tuned for endless years, And form'd by power divine; To sound in God the Father's ears No other name but thine. Cowper. BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning! Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining, Angels adore him in slumber reclining, Maker and monarch, and Saviour of all. Say, shall we yield him in costly devotion, Vainly we offer each ample oblation, Vainly with gifts would his favour secure : Richer by far is the heart's adoration; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! Heber. GREAT God! what do I see and hear! The Judge of all men doth appear In clouds of glory seated; The trumpet sounds, the graves restore A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, Luther. O'er the still radiance of the lake below: Wilson. THE CHRISTIAN WARRIOR. "SERVANT of God! well done; A mortal arrow pierced his frame; Tranquil amidst alarms, It found him in the field, Still warm with recent fight, It was a two-edg'd blade, Oft with its fiery force, His arm had quell'd the foe, The world to him was loss; At midnight came the cry, He woke and caught his Captain's eye; Burst its encumb'ring clay; The pains of death are past, Labour and sorrow cease, And life's long warfare clos'd at last, And while eternal ages run, James Montgomery. ELEGY, Written in a Country Churchyard. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their harrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the notes of praise. |