Befriend me Night, best patroness of grief,
Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,

That Heav'n and Earth are colour'd with my woe:
My sorrows are too dark for day to know:

The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters where my tears have wash'd a wannish white.

See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
That whirl'd the prophet up at Chebar flood,
My spirit some transporting cherub feels,
To bear me where the tow'rs of Salem stood,
Once glorious tow'rs, now sunk in guiltless blood,
There doth my soul in holy visions sit

In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit.

Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock,
That was the casket of Heav'n's richest store,
And here through grief my feeble hands up lock,
Yet on the soften'd quarry would I score
My plaining verse as lively as before;

For sure so weli instructed are my tears,
That they would fitly fall in order'd characters.

Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would soon unbosom all their echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguil❜d\

Might think th' infection of my sorrows loud

Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.

THE

SAVIOUR TO THE SOUL

[BOWDLER.]

CHILD of man, whose seed below, Must fulfil their race of woe; Heir of want, and doubt, and pain, Does thy fainting heart complain? Oh! in thought, one night recal, The night of grief in Herod's hall; There I bore the vengeance due, Freely bore it all for you.

Child of dust, corruption's son, By pride deceiv'd, by pride undone, Willing captive, yet be free, Take my yoke, and learn of me. I, of heaven and earth the Lord, God with God, the eternal Word, I forsook my Father's side, Toil'd and wept, and bled, and died.

Child of doubt, does fear surprise,
Vexing thoughts within thee rise;
Wond'ring, murm'ring, dost thou gaze
On evil men and evil days?
Oh! if darkness round thee lour,
Darker far my dying hour,

Which bade that fearful cry awake,
My God, my God, dost thou forsake

Child of sin, by guilt oppress'd, Heaves at last thy throbbing breast? Hast thou felt the mourner's part, Fear'st thou now thy failing heart? Bear thee on, belov'd of God, Tread the path thy Saviour trod; He the tempter's power hath known, He hath pour'd the garden groan.

Child of heav'n, by me restor❜d, Love thy Saviour, serve thy Lord; Seal'd with that mysterious name, Bear thy cross, and scorn the shame, Then, like me, thy conflict o'er, Thou shalt rise to sleep no more: Partner of my purchas'd throne, One in joy, in glory one.'

HYMN TO THE SAVIOUR,

[LOGAN.]

MESSIAH, at thy glad approach
The howling winds are still;
Thy praises fill the lonely waste,
And breathe from every hill.

The hidden fountains, at thy call,
Their sacred stores unlock;
Loud in the desert sudden streams
Burst living from the rock.

The incense of the spring ascends
Upon the morning gale;

Red o'er the hills the roses bloom
The lilies in the vale.

Renew'd, the earth a robe of light,
A rope of beauty wears;

And in new heavens a brighter sun
Leads in the promis'd year.

The kingdom of Messiah come,
Appointed times disclose;
And fairer in Emmanuel's land
The new creation glows.

Let Israel to the Prince of Peace
The loud hosannah sing.
With hallelujah and with hymns,
O Zion, hail thy King!

TEARS.

[REV. HOBART CAUNTER.]

THERE is a tear that spots the cheek,

And speaks more than the tongue can speak

In words without a name,

That tells of many a pang within

Of many a foul and deadly sin-
It is the tear of shame.

There is a tear that through the soul
Causes compassion's tides to roll
In full nut placid flow,

That shows the holy maxim true
How man is born his guilt to rue-
It is the tear of woe.

There is a tear whose mute appeals

Tell all the conscious bosom feels,
With thrilling eloquence,

That wrings the sympathetic sigh

Where ne'er a drop had dimm'd the eyeThe tear of penitence.

There is a tear that trickles still

Announcing all the worst of ill,

Too bitter for relief,

That when by some dire mis'ry curst, Swells the stretch'd heart-strings till they h It is the tear of grief.

There is a tear that dims the eye,
When answer'd by the stifled sigh,
That speaks of woe within,

Ploughing a channel down the face
As if were there its resting place-
It is the tear of sin.

There is a tear that fiercely starts,
And to the haughty eye imparts
A glance, by guilt supplied,

That falls not o'er the moisten'd lid-
To flow by fierce disdain forbid-
It is the tear of pride.

But there's a tear that gently flows,
And, like the dew-drop on the rose,
Refreshes all things near-
In which the sky of purest blue
Reflects its own celestial hue--
It is religion's tear.