A SACRED LYRIC.

ON BEING WAKED IN THE NIGHT BY A VIOLENT STORM OF THUNDER AND LIGHTNING.

LOCK'D in the arms of balmy sleep,

From every care of day,

As filent as the folded sheep,

And as fecure I lay:

Sudden, tremendous thunders roll;
Quick lightnings round me glare;
The folemn fcene alarms my foul,
And wakes the heart to prayer.

Whate'er, O Lord! at this ftill hour,
Thefe awful founds portend,
Whether fole enfigns of thy power,
Or groans for nature's end!

Grant me to bear with equal mind
Thefe terrors of the sky;
For ever, as thou wilt, refign'd,
Alike to live or die.

If, wak'd by thy vindictive hand,
This mighty tempeft ftirs;

That peal the voice of thy command;

Thefe flames thy meflengers;

Welcome the bolt, where'er it fall
Beneath the paffing fun;

Thy righteous will determines all,
And let that will be done.

But if, as nature's laws ordain,
Nor deftin'd by thy will,

Each bolt exerts its wide domain,
Self-authoriz'd to kill;

Quick interpofe, all-gracious Lord,
In this remorseless night!.

Arife! and be alike ador'd,

For mercy as for might:

Vouchfafe amidst this time of dread
Thy fuppliant's voice to hear:
O fhield from harm each friendly head,
And all my foul holds dear!

Let it not kill where riot foul
Pours forth the drunken jeft;

Nor where the guilt-envenom'd foul
Starts wild from troubled rest.

A while O fpare thofe finful breafts Whose deeds the night deform, Nor strike where fmiling virtue refts Unconscious of the ftorm.

Succour the couch where beauty lies,
All pale with tender fear;
Where fickness lifts its languid eyes,
O pour thy comforts there.

Nor ufelefs waste this moral night,
Like common hours, away;
But glow with wifdom's facred light,
More fair than orient day.

Warn'd by each flash, may virtue rife,
And with its glories fpread,
While every blasted bud of vice,
Shrinks in new terrors dead.

So on that awful Judgement Day,
Whofe image fhakes the foul,
Though keeneft lightnings fhoot their ray,
And loudeft thunders-roll:

Well-pleas'd, O Lord, each eye shall see
Thofe final thunders hurl'd!

And mark with joy, for love of thee,
That flash which melts the world.

ODE TO INNOCENCE.

'TWA

BY JOHN OGILVIE, D.D.

WAS when the flow declining ray
Had ting'd the cloud with ev'ning gold;

No warbler pour'd the melting lay,

No found difturb'd the fleeping fold;

When by a murmuring rill reclin'd,

Sat wrapt in thought a wand'ring swain; Calm peace compos'd his mufing mind; And thus he rais'd the flowing train:

"Hail, Innocence! celeftial maid!

"What joys thy blufhing charms reveal!
"Sweet as the arbour's cooling fhade,
"And milder than the vernal gale.

"On thee attends a radient quire,
} "Soft fmiling Peace, and downy Reft,
"With Love that prompts the warbling lyre,
"And Hope that foothes the throbbing breast.

"O, fent from heav'n to haunt the grove,
"Where fquint-ey'd Envy ne'er can come;
"Nor pines the cheek with luckless love,
"Nor anguish chills the living bloom;

"But spotless Beauty, rob'd in white,
"Sits on yon mofs-grown hill reclin'd,
<< Serene as heav'n's unfully'd light,

"And pure as Delia's gentle mind:

"Grant, heav'nly Power! thy peaceful fway "May still my ruder thoughts controul; "Thy hand to point my dubious way, "Thy voice to footh the melting foul!

"For in the fhady sweet retreat

"Let thought beguile the ling'ring hour; "Let quiet court the moffy feat,

"And twining olives form the bow'r.

"Let dove-ey'd Peace her wreath bestow, "And oft fit lift'ning in the dale, "While night's fweet warbler from the bough "Tells to the grove her plaintive tale.

«Soft, as in Delia's snowy breast,

"Let each confenting paffion move, Let angels watch its filent rest,

"And all its blissful dreams be love."