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Yet, courage—days and years will glide,
And we shall lay these clods aside,
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed;
Shall meet the Father face to face,
And need no more a hiding place.*


O LORD, another day is flown,

And we, a lonely band,
Are met once more before thy throne,

To bless thy fostering hand.
And wilt thou bend a listening ear,

To praises low as ours ?
Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear

The song which meekness pours. And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign,

As we before thee pray;
For thou didst bless the infant train,

And we are less than they.

* The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, by the Author, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, and singing it as he was used to do on such occasions.

O let thy grace perform its part,

And let contention cease ; And shed abroad in every heart

Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine,

A flock by Jesus led;
The Sun of Holiness shall shine

In glory on our head.

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,

And thou wilt bless our way;
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet

The dawn of lasting day.


When marshald on the nightly plain,

The glittering host bestud the sky; One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,

From every host, from every gem; But one alone the Saviour speaks,

It is the Star of Bethlehem. Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud,—the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd

The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze,

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose,

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease ; And through the storm and dangers' thrall

It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moor’d—my peril's o'er,

I'll sing, first in night's diadem, For ever, and for evermore,

The Star !—The Star of Bethlehem !


O LORD, my God, in mercy turn,
In mercy hear a sinner mourn!
To thee I call, to thee I cry,
O leave me, leave me not to die!
I strove against thee, Lord, I know,
I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law;
The hour is past—the day's gone by,
And I am left alone to die.
O pleasures past, what are ye now
But thorns about my bleeding brow!
Spectres that hover round my brain,
And aggravate and mock my pain.

For pleasure I have given my soul;
Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll!
Now, Vengeance, smile—and with a blow
Lay the rebellious ingrate low.

Yet, Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling,
I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing;
I'll clasp the cross, and holding there,
Even me, oh bliss !-his wrath may spare.






UNHAPPY White !* while life was in its spring,
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing,
The spoiler cáme; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When science self destroy'd her favourite son!'
Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit.
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low.
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.

* Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.

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