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Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,
In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts,
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave to Him!
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Great source of day! best image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,

From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On nature write with every beam his praise.
The thunder rolls! be hushed the prostrate world,
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks,
Retain the sound: the broad responsive low,
Ye valleys, raise: for the Great Shepherd reigns;
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.
Ye woodlands, all awake! A boundless song
Bursts from the groves! and when the restless day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm
The listening shades, and teach the night his praise.
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all,
Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast
Assembled men to the deep organ join

The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear
At solemn pauses through the swelling base;
And, as each mingling flame increases, each
In one united ardor rise to heaven.

Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
And find a fane in every sacred grove,
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll.

For me when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray
Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams,
Or winter rises in the blackening east,
Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!
Should fate command me to the farthest verge
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,
Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames on the Atlantic isles ;-'tis naught to me,
Since God is ever present, ever felt

In the void waste as in the city full:

And where He vital breathes there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go
Where Universal Love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs and all their suns—
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose

Myself in Him, in Light Ineffable.

Come then, expressive Silence, muse his praise.

CHARLES WESLEY.

CHARLES WESLEY was the brother of the more celebrated John Wesley, and, like him, was an eloquent preacher. His Hymns have great sweetness of style and sentiment, and they are nearly all retained in the collections of the Methodist Church.

JUDGMENT.

THOU Judge of quick and dead,
Before whose bar severe,
With holy joy or guilty dread,

We all shall soon appear:

Our sinful souls prepare

For that tremendous day;

And fill us now with watchful care,

And stir us up to pray.

To pray, and wait the hour,

That awful hour unknown;
When robed in majesty and power,

Thou shalt from heaven come down,

Th' immortal Son of man,

To judge the human race,

With all thy Father's dazzling train,
With all thy glorious grace.

To damp our earthly joys,

T' increase our gracious fears,
Forever let the Archangel's voice
Be sounding in our ears.
The solemn midnight cry,

66

Ye dead, the Judge is come;

Arise, and meet him in the sky,

And meet your instant doom!"

O may we thus be found

Obedient to his word;

Attentive to the trumpet's sound,
And looking for our Lord!

O may we all ensure

A lot among the blest!

And watch a moment, to secure
An everlasting rest.

JAMES MERRICK

WAS born at Reading in 1720. He was the author of several hymns, the most beautiful of which is that well-known piece, " Placed on the Verge of Youth." He also published a new version of the Psalms, which bears little affinity to the inspired original. He died in 1766.

THE IGNORANCE OF MAN.

BEHOLD yon new-born infant, grieved
With hunger, thirst, and pain,
That asks to have the wants relieved;
It knows not to complain.

Aloud the speechless suppliant cries,
And utters as it can

The woes that in its bosom rise,
And speak its nature man.

That infant, whose advancing hour,
Life's various sorrows try,
(Sad proof of sin's transmissive power,)
That infant, Lord, am I.

A childhood yet my thoughts confess,
Though long in years mature,

Unknowing whence I feel distress,

And where, or what, its cure.

Author of good! to Thee I turn :
Thy ever-wakeful eye
Alone can all my wants discern,
Thy hand alone supply.

Oh! let thy fear within me dwell,
Thy love my footsteps guide;
That love shall vainer loves expel,
That fear all fear beside.

And oh! by error's force subdued,
Since oft my stubborn will,
Preposterous shuns the latent good,
And grasps the specious ill,

Not to my wish, but to my want,
Do Thou thy gifts supply;

Unasked, what good Thou knowest, grant,
What ill, though asked, deny.

NUNC DIMITTIS

'Tis enough-the hour is come:
Now within the silent tomb
Let this mortal frame decay,
Mingled with its kindred clay;
Since thy mercies, oft of old
By thy chosen seers foretold,
Faithful now and steadfast prove,
God of truth, and God of love!
Since at length, my aged eye
Sees the dayspring from on high;
Sun of righteousness, to Thee
Lo! the nations bow the knee;
And the realms of distant kings
Own the healing of thy wings.
Those whom death had overspread
With his dark and dreary shade,

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