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Men, when raised to lofty stations,
Often know their friends no more!
Slight and scorn their poor relations,
Though they valued them before:
But our Saviour always owns
Those whom he redeem'd with groans.

When He lived on earth abased,
Friend of sinners was His name;
Now above all glory raised,
He rejoices in the same:
Still He calls them brethren, friends,
And to all their wants attends.

Could we bear from one another
What He daily bears from us?
Yet this glorious friend and brother
Loves us though we treat Him thus:
Though for good we render ill,
He accounts us brethren still.

Oh! for grace our hearts to soften,
Teach us Lord at length to love;

We alas! forget too often,

What a friend we have above:

But when home our souls are brought,

We will love Thee as we ought.

THERE is a fountain fill'd with blood,
Drawn from Emanuel's veins;
And sinners plung'd beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there have I, as vile as he,
Washed all my sins away.

Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood
Shall never lose its power,

Till all the ransom'd church of God
Be sav'd to sin no more.

Newton.

Ere since by faith I saw the stream,
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die.

Then in a nobler, sweeter song,
I'll sing thy power to save;

When this poor lisping, stamm'ring tongue,
Lies silent in the grave.

Lord, I believe thou hast prepared,
(Unworthy tho' I be),

For me, a blood-bought free reward,
A golden harp for me!

"Tis strung and tuned for endless years,

And form'd by power divine;

To sound in God the Father's ears

No other name but thine.

Cowper.

BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning!
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid;
Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining,
Low lies his head with the beasts of the stall;

Angels adore him in slumber reclining,

Maker and monarch, and Saviour of all.

Say, shall we yield him in costly devotion,
Odours of Eden, and offerings divine!
Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation,

Vainly with gifts would his favour secure :

Richer by far is the heart's adoration;

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning!
Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid;
Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid!

Heber.

GREAT God! what do I see and hear!
The end of things created;

The Judge of all men doth

appear

In clouds of glory seated;

The trumpet sounds, the graves restore
The dead which they contain'd before--
Prepare my soul to meet him.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson ting'd its braided snow:
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on,

Luther.

O'er the still radiance of the lake below:
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow;
E'en in its very motion there was rest,
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven:
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies;
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

Wilson.

THE CHRISTIAN WARRIOR.

"SERVANT of God! well done;
Rest from thy lov'd employ!
The battle fought, the victory won,
Enter thy Master's joy."
-The voice at midnight came;
He started up to hear,

A mortal arrow pierced his frame;
He fell, but felt no fear.

Tranquil amidst alarms,

It found him in the field,
A veteran slumbering on his arms,
Beneath his red-cross shield:
His sword was in his hand,

Still warm with recent fight,
Ready that moment at command,
Through rock and steel to smite.

It was a two-edg'd blade,
Of heavenly temper keen;
And double were the wounds it made,
Where'er it smote between :
'Twas death to sin;-'twas life
To all who mourned for sin;
It kindled and it silenced strife;
Made war and peace within.

Oft with its fiery force,

His arm had quell'd the foe,
And laid resistless in his course
The alien armies low.
Bent on such glorious toils,

The world to him was loss;
Yet all his trophies, all his spoils,
He hung upon the Cross.

At midnight came the cry,
"To meet thy God prepare!"

He woke and caught his Captain's eye;
Then, strong in faith and prayer,
His spirit with a bound

Burst its encumb'ring clay;
His tent at sunrise on the ground
A darken'd ruin lay.

The pains of death are past,

Labour and sorrow cease,

And life's long warfare clos'd at last,
His soul is found in peace.
Soldier of Christ! well done;
Praise be thy new employ;

And while eternal ages run,
Rest in thy Saviour's joy.

James Montgomery.

ELEGY,

Written in a Country Churchyard.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their harrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team a-field!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the notes of praise.

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