Vile man is so perverse,

It's too rough work for verse
His badness to rehearse,

And shew his folly :
He'll die at any rates,

He God and conscience hates,
Yet sin he consecrates,
And calls it holy:

The grace he'll not endure,

Which would renew him:

Constant to all, and sure,
Which will undo him.

His head comes first at birth,
And takes root in the earth,
As nature shooteth forth,
His feet grow highest :

To kick at all above,
And spurn at saving love;
His God is in his grove,
Because it's nighest.

He loves this world of strife,

Hates that would mend it;
Loves death that's called life,
Fears what would end it.

All that is good he'd crush,
Blindly on sin doth rush,

A pricking thorny bush,

Such Christ was crown'd with:

Their worship's like to this,

The reed, the Judas kiss,

Such the religion is,

That these abound with; They mock Christ with the knee Whene'er they bow it;

As if God did not see

The heart, and know it.

Of good they choose the least,
Despise that which is best,
The joyful, heavenly feast,
Which Christ would give them
Heav'n hath scarce one cold wish,
They live unto the flesh,

Like swine they feed on wash,
Satan doth drive them.
Like weeds they grow in mire,
Which vices nourish;
Where warm'd by Satan's fire,
All sins do flourish.

Is this the world men choose,
For which they Heav'n refuse,
And Christ and grace abuse,
And not receive it?

Shall I not guilty be
Of this in some degree,
If hence God would me free,

And I'd not leave it?
My soul from Sodom fly,

Lest wrath there find thee:

Thy refuge-rest is nigh,

Look not behind thee.

There's none of this ado,
None of the hellish crew,
God's promise is most true,
Boldly believe it.

My friends are gone before,
And I am near the shore,
My soul stands at the door,
O Lord receive it.

It trusts Christ and his merits.

The dead he raises :

Join it with blessed spirits,

Who sing thy praises.

PSALM LXXIV.

[HELEN WILLIAMS.]

MY God; all nature owns thy sway,
Thou giv'st the night, and thou the day!
When all thy lov'd creation wakes,
When morning, rich in lustre, breaks,
And bathes in dew the opening flower,
To thee we owe her fragrant hour,
And when she pours her choral song,
Her melodies to thee belong!

Or when in paler tints array'd,

The evening slowly spreads her shade; That soothing shade, that grateful gloom, Can, more than day's enliv'ning bloom, Still ev'ry fond and vain desire, And calmer, purer thoughts inspire; From earth the pensive spirit free, And lead the softened heart to Thee. In ev'ry scene thy hands have dress'd, In ev'ry form by thee impress'd, Upon the mountain's awful head, Or where the shelt'ring woods are spread; In ev'ry note that swells the gale, Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale, The cavern's depth or echoing grove, A voice is heard of praise and love.

As o'er thy work the seasons roll, And soothe, with change of bliss, the soul, Oh! never may their smiling train Pass o'er the human scene in vain! But oft as on the charm we gaze, Attune the wond'ring soul to praise; And be the joys that most we prize, The joys that from thy favour rise!

ODE TO РЕАСЕ.

[COWPER.]

COME, Peace of Mind, delightful guest!
Return; and make thy downy nest,
Once more, in this sad heart,
Nor riches I, nor power pursue,
Nor hold forbidden joys in view;
We therefore need not part.

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
From Av'rice and Ambition free,
And Pleasure's fatal wiles?-
For whom, alas! dost thou prepare
The sweets that I was wont to share,
The banquet of thy smiles?

The great, the gay, shall they partake
The heaven that thou alone canst make;
And wilt thou quit the stream

That murmurs through the dewy mead,
The
grove, and the sequester'd shade,
To be a guest with them?

For thee I panted; thee I priz’d;
For thee I gladly sacrificed

Whate'er I loved before.

And shall I see thee start away;

And-helpless, hopeless-hear thee say, Farewell! we meet no more?

THE PASSION.

[MILTON.]

EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
Wherewith the stage of air and earth did ring,
And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth,
My muse with angels did divide to sing;
But headlong Joy is ever on the wing,

In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light,
Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out living night.

For now to sorrow must I tune my song,

And set my harp to notes of saddest woe,

Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long,

Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Which he for us did freely undergo:

Most perfect Hero tried in heaviest plight,

Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight!

He sovran Priest stooping his regal head,

That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly tabernacle entered,

His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies,

O what a mask was there, what a disguise!

Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide,

Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side.

These latest scenes confine my roving verse,
To this horizon is my Phoebus bound;
His godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former sufferings otherwhere are found;
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth sound:
Me softer airs befit, and softer strings

Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things.