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CCCLVIII.

Source of good, whose power controls
Every movement of our souls;
Wind that quickens where it blows;
Comforter of human woes ;

Lamp of God, whose ray serene
In the darkest night is seen;
Come, inspire my feeble strain,
That I may not sing in vain!

God's own Finger, skill'd to teach
Tongues of every land and speech;
Balsam of the wounded soul,
Binding up, and making whole;
Flame of pure and holy love ;
Strength of all that live and move,
Come! Thy gifts and fire impart ;
Make me love Thee from the heart!

As the hart, with longing, looks
For refreshing water-brooks,
Heated in the burning chace;
So my soul desires Thy grace:
So my heavy-laden breast,
By the cares of life opprest,
Longs Thy cooling streams to taste
In this dry and barren waste.

Mighty Spirit! by whose aid
Man a living soul was made;
Everlasting God! whose fire
Kindles chaste and pure desire ;
Grant, in every grief and loss,
I may calmly bear the cross,
And surrender all to Thee,

Comforting and strengthening me!

Let not hell, with frowns or smiles,
Open force or cunning wiles,
Snap the thread of my brief days;
But, when gently life decays,
Take to Heaven Thy servant dear,

Who hath loved and served Thee here;
There eternal hymns to raise,

Mighty Spirit! to Thy praise!

Richard Massie. 1854. (From John Frank. 1660.

CCCLIX.

O Lamp of Life! that on the bloody Cross
Dost hang, the Beacon of our wandering race,
To guide us homeward to our resting-place,
And save our best wealth from eternal loss !
So purge my inward sight from earthly dross,
That, fix'd upon Thy Cross, or near or far,
In all the storms this weary bark that toss,

(Whate'er be lost in that tempestuous war,)
Thee I retain, my Compass and my Star!
That, when arrived upon the wish'd-for strand,
I pass of death th' irrevocable bar,
And at the gate of Heaven trembling stand,
The everlasting doors may open wide,
And give Thee to my sight, God glorified!

Charles Dyson. 1816.

CCCLX.

A poor wayfaring man of grief

Hath often cross'd me on my way,

Who sued so humbly for relief,
That I could never answer, Nay:

C C

I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love, I knew not why.

Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered; not a word he spake ;
Just perishing for want of bread;

I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake,
And ate; but gave me part again :
Mine was an angel's portion then ;
For, while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone ;
The heedless water mock'd his thirst,

He heard it, saw it hurrying on:

I ran to raise the sufferer up;

Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup,

Dipt, and return'd it running o'er ;

I drank, and never thirsted more.

'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof;

I heard his voice abroad, and flew

To bid him welcome to my roof;

I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd
In Eden's garden while I dream'd.

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway-side:
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied

Wine, oil, refreshment; he was healed:
I had myself a wound concealed;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And
peace bound up my broken heart.

In prison I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor's death at morn :
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed,

And honoured him midst shame and scorn; My friendship's utmost zeal to try,

He ask'd, if I for him would die?

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill;
But the free spirit cried, “ I will.”

Then in a moment to my view

The Stranger darted from disguise;
The tokens in His hands I knew,

My Saviour stood before mine eyes!
He spake; and my poor name He named ;
"Of me thou hast not been ashamed;
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not; thou didst them unto Me."

James Montgomery. 1826.

V.

HOPE.

"Set your affections on things above; not on things on the earth."-(COL. iii. 2.)

CCCLXI.

I praised the earth, in beauty seen
With garlands gay of various green;
I praised the sea, whose ample field
Shone glorious as a silver shield;
And earth and ocean seem'd to say,
"Our beauties are but for a day."

I praised the sun, whose chariot roll'd
On wheels of amber and of gold;
I praised the moon, whose softer eye
Gleam'd sweetly through the summer sky,
And moon and sun in answer said,
"Our days of light are numbered."

O God! O Good beyond compare !
If thus Thy meaner works are fair,
If thus Thy bounties gild the span
Of ruin'd earth and sinful man,
How glorious must the mansion be,

Where Thy redeem'd shall dwell with Thee !
Bishop Reginald Heber. 1827.

CCCLXII.

Our life is but an idle play,

And various as the wind;

We laugh and sport our hours away,
Nor think of woes behind.

See the fair cheek of beauty fade,
Frail glory of an hour;

And blooming youth, with sickening head,
Droops like the dying flower.

Our pleasures, like the morning sun,
Diffuse a flattering light;

But gloomy clouds obscure their noon,

And soon they sink in night.

Wealth, pomp, and honour, we behold
With an admiring eye;

Like summer insects, drest in gold,

That flutter, shine, and die.

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