Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre.
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms;
Ours are the prophet's car of fire,
Which bears us to a Father's arms.

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,
In distant hallelujahs stole,

Wild murmuring o'er the raptured soul.
Then swift to every startled eye,
New streams of glory light the sky;
Heaven bursts her azure gates to pour
Her spirits to the midnight hour.
On wheels of light, on wings of flame,
The glorious hosts of Zion came;

High heaven with songs of triumph rung,
While thus they struck their harps and sung.
O Zion! lift thy raptured eye,

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,
Bids Satan and his host depart;
Again the day-star gilds the gloom.
Again the bowers of Eden bloom;
O Zion! lift thy raptured eye,
The long-expected hour is nigh;
The joys of Nature rise again,
The Prince of Salem comes to reign.

MISSIONS.

[HEBER.]

FROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral sand,

Where Afric's sunny fountains,
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,
From many a balmy plain
They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft on Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile :

In vain with lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are shewn,
The Heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone.
Shall we whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high;
Shall we to man benighted

The lamp of life deny?

Salvation! oh, Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim
Till each remotest nation
Has learnt Messiah's name.
Waft, waft ye winds his story,
And you ye waters roll,
Till like a sea of glory

It spreads from pole to pole:
Till o'er our ransom'd nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.

RESIGNATION

[CAROLINE FRY.]

GRACE does not steel the faithful heart,
That it should know no ill;

We learn to kiss the chast'ning rod,
And feel its sharpness still.

But how unlike the Christian's tears,
To those the world must shed!
His sighs are tranquil and resign'd

As the heart from which they sped,
The saint may be compell'd to meet
Misfortune's saddest blow;

His bosom is alive to feel

The keenest pang of woe.

But, ever as the wound is giv❜n,
There is a hand unseen,
Hasting to wipe away the scar,

And bide where it has been.

The Christian would not have his lot
Be other than it is:

For, while his Father rules the world,
He knows that world is his.

He knows that he who gave the best,
Will give him all beside;

Assur'd each seeming good he asks
Is evil, if denied.

When clouds of sorrow gather round,
His bosom owns no fear;

He knows, where'er his portion be,
His God will still be there.

And when the threaten'd storm has burst,
Whate'er the trial may be,
Something yet whispers him within,
Be still, for it is He!'

Poor nature, ever weak, will shrink
From the afflictive stroke;
But faith disclaims the hasty plaint
Impatient nature spoke.

His grateful bosom quickly learns
Its sorrow to disown;

Yields to His pleasure, and forgets
The choice was not his own.

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:

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And, in the dust, be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murn❜ring breath, When they pale captives creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor victim bleeds:
All hands must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just,

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

PROVIDENCE.

[POMFRET.]

BOLD is the wretch, and blasphemous the man, Who, finite, will attempt to scan

The works of Him that's infinitely wise, And those he cannot comprehend, denies : As if a space immense were measurable by a span. Thus the proud sceptic will not own That Providence the world directs, Or its affairs inspects, But leaves it to itself alone.