THE SABBATH. [CUNNINGHAM.] DEAR is the hallowed morn to me, And dear to me the loud amen Which echoes through the blest abode, Dies on the walls, but lives to God. And dear the simple melody, Sung with the pomp of rustic art; In secret I have often prayed, The fire descends and dries them all. Oft when the world, with iron hands This bursts them, like the strong man's bands, Then, dear to me, the Sabbath morn, The village bells, the shepherd's voice, Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre, CHRIST'S NATIVITY. [CAMPBELL.] WHEN Jordan hushed his waters still, And silence slept on Zion hill; When Bethlehem's shepherds through the night, Watched o'er their flocks by starry light; Hark! from the midnight hills around, A voice of more than mortal sound, Wild murmuring o'er the raptured soul. On wheels of light, on wings of flame, High heaven with songs of triumph rung, The long expected hour is nigh; The joys of nature rise again, The Prince of Salem comes to reign. See, Mercy, from her golden urn, Pours a rich stream to them that mourn, Behold, she binds with tender care, The bleeding bosom of despair. He comes! to cheer the trembling heart, MISSIONS. [HEBER.] FROM Greenland's icy mountains, Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes In vain with lavish kindness, Shall we whose souls are lighted The lamp of life deny? Salvation! ah, Salvation: Waft, waft ve winds his story, It spreads from pole to pole: RESIGNATION CAROLINE PRY GRACE does not steel the faithfu But how unlike the Christian's rars, As the heart from which her spei. The saint may be compell à a 19. Misfortune's saddest low, His bosoms uive o fei The seenest jang of woe But, ever as the wound's gr There's a hami inseen. Hasting to wipe way 2. St tou like vaere I WAS NEAR The Christian would not have his lot For, while his Father rules the world, He knows that he who gave the best, Assur'd each seeming good he asks When clouds of sorrow gather round, And when the threaten'd storm has burst, Poor nature, ever weak, will shrink His grateful bosom quickly learns Yields to His pleasure, and forgets DEATH'S CONQUEST. [PERCY.] THE glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate, Death lays his icy hands on kings: |