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To us invisible, or dimly scen

In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol

Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,

If better thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun of this great world, both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies,
And ye five other wandering fires that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix

And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise!
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.

His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,

Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs! warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds
That singing up to heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,

To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail universal Lord! be bounteous still

To give us only good; and if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF

THE NINETIETH PSALM

[BURNS.]

O THOU, the first, the greatest friend
Of all the human race!

Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling-place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads
Beneath thy forming hand,

Before this pond'rous globe itself

Arose at thy command;

That power which rais'd and still upholds

This universal frame,

From countless, unbeginning time,

Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast,
Appear no more before thy sight
Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word; thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought :

Again thou say'st,' Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!'

Thou layest them, with all their cares,

In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood thou tak'st them off
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow`r,
In beauty's pride array'd;

But long ere night cut down it lies,
Ali wither'd and decay'd.

125

TEMPORALS AND SPIRITUALS.

[BERNARD BARTON.]

WHAT is lovelier far than the spring can be
To the gloom of dark winter succeeding,
When the blossoms are blushing on flower and tree,
And the lambs in the meadows are feeding,
While the earth below and the heavens above,
Resound with the anthems of joy and love?

Yet, dumb with wonder, I behold
Man's thoughtless race, in error bold,
Forget, or scorn, the laws of death;
With these no projects coincide,

Nor vows, nor toils, nor hopes, they guide.
Each thinks he draws immortal breath!

Each, blind to fate's approaching hour.
Intrigues, or fights, for wealth or power,
And slumbering danger dares provoke :
And he who, tottering, scarce sustains
A century's age, plans future gains,
And feels an unexpected stroke!

PRAYER.

REV. R. MANT.]

ERE the morning's busy ray
Call you to your work away;
Ere the silent evening close

Your wearied eyes in sweet repose;

To lift your heart and voice in pray'r

Be your first and latest care.

He to whom the pray'r is due,

From heaven, his throne, shall smile on you
Angels, sent by him, shall tend,
Your daily labour to befriend;
And their nightly vigils keep,
To guard you in the hour of sicep.

When through the peaceful parish swells
The music of the sabbath bells,
Duly tread the sacred road

Which leads you to the house of God:

The blessing of the Lamb is there,

And God is in the midst of her.'

Is the holy altar spread?

True to him, for you who bled,

Cleanse from your heart each foul offence,
And wash your hands in innocence,❜
And draw near the mystic board

In remembrance of your Lord.

On the appointed sacrifice

He shall look with favouring eyes,
With holy strength your breast inform,
And with holy rapture warm,

And whisper to your wounded soul,
• "Twill heal thee-be thou whole.'

And O! where'er your days be past,
And O! howe'er your lot be cast,
Still think on him whose eye surveys,
Whose hand is over all your ways.

Does darkness veil your deeds in night?
Darkness to him is clear as light,
In secrot he your deeds can see,
And shall reward them openly.

About

your path are comforts spread?
Does peace repose upon your bed?
Lift up your soul in praise to heaven,
Whence every precious gift is given;
And, thankful for the mercy,
Love to your fellow-men below.

shew

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