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Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink

Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,

To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought !-where'er our steps may roam,

O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,

Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.

Yes, 'twill be over soon.—This sickly dream

Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; And death my wearied spirit will redeem

From this wild region of unvaried pain. Yon brook will glide as softly as before,Yon landscape smile,-yon golden harvest

grow,Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar

When Henry's name is heard no more below. I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,

They laugh in health, and future evils brave; Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,

While I am mouldering in my silent grave. God of the just- Thou gavest the bitter cup; I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

TO CONSUMPTION.

GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head,

Consumption, lay thine hand let me decay,

Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away. And softly go to slumber with the dead. And if 'tis true, what holy men have said,

That strains angelic oft foretell the day

Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, O let the aerial music round my bed, Dissolving sad in dying symphony,

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear: That I may bid my weeping friends good-by

Ere I depart upon my journey drear : And, smiling faintly on the painful past, Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.

TRANSLATED

FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX.

Tay judgments, Lord, are just ; thou lov'st to wear

The face of pity and of love divine; But mine is guilt—thou must not, canst not spare,

While Heaven is true, and equity is thine. Yes, oh my God !—such crimes as mine, so dread,

Leave but the choice of punishment to thee; Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,

And even thy mercy dares not plead for me !

Thy will be done-since 'tis thy glory's due,

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; Smite-it is time—though endless death ensue,

I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning

blood ?

HY MN.

The Lord our God is clothed with might,

The winds obey his will ;
He speaks, and in his heavenly height,

The rolling sun stands still.
Rebel, ye waves—and o'er the land

With threatening aspect roar!
The Lord uplifts his awful hand,

And chains you to the shore.
Howl, winds of night! your force combine !

Without his high behest,
Ye shall not, in the mountain pine,

Disturb the sparrow's nest.
His voice sublime is heard afar,

In distant peals it dies;
'He yokes the whirlwinds to his car,

And sweeps the howling skies.
Ye nations, bend—in reverence bend;

Ye monarchs, wait his nod,
And bid the choral song ascend

To celebrate our God.

HYMN.

THE Lord our God is Lord of all,

His station who can find ? I hear him in the waterfall !

I hear him in the wind !

If in the gloom of night I shroud,

His face I cannot fly;
I see him in the evening cloud,

And in the morning sky.

He lives, he reigns in every land,

From winter's polar snows
To where, across the burning sand,

The blasting meteor glows!

He smiles, we live; he frowns, we die;

We hang upon his word:
He rears his red right arm on high,

And ruin bares the sword.

He bids his blasts the fields deform

Then when his thunders cease, Sits like an angel 'mid the storm,

And smiles the winds to peace !

Thy will be done-since 'tis thy glory's due,

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; Smite-it is time—though endless death ensue,

I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning

blood ?

HY MN.

The Lord our God is clothed with might,

The winds obey his will ;
He speaks, and in his heavenly height,

The rolling sun stands still.
Rebel, ye waves—and o'er the land

With threatening aspect roar!
The Lord uplifts his awful hand,

And chains you to the shore.
Howl, winds of night! your force combine !

Without his high behest,
Ye shall not, in the mountain pine,

Disturb the sparrow's nest.
His voice sublime is heard afar,

In distant peals it dies;
'He yokes the whirlwinds to his car,

And sweeps the howling skies.
Ye nations, bend-in reverence bend;

Ye monarchs, wait his nod,
And bid the choral song ascend

To celebrate our God.

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