SECTION VII.

THE IGNORANCE OF MAN.

BEHOLD уon newborn infant griev'd With hunger, thirst, and pain; That asks to have the wants reliev'd, 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 pow'r!) 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.

O let thy fear within me dwell;
Thy love my footsteps guide:
That love shall vainer loves expel;
That fear all fears beside.

And oh by error's force subdu'd,

Since oft my stubborn will

Prepost'rous shun's the latent good,

And grasps the specious ill;

Not to my wish, but to my want,

Do thou thy gifts apply:

Unask'd, what good thou knowest grant;

What ill, tho' ask'd, deny.

MERRICK.

TRUST IN THE GOODNESS OF GOD.

WHY, O my soul, why thus deprest?
And whence this anxious fear?
Let former favours fix thy trust,

And check the rising tear.

When darkness, and when sorrows rose,

And press'd on ev'ry side,

Did not the Lord sustain thy steps?
And was not God thy guide?

Affliction is a stormy deep,

Where wave resounds to wave: Tho' o'er my head the billows roll, I know the Lord can save.

Perhaps, before the morning dawns,
He'll reinstate my peace;

For He, who bade the tempest roar,
Can bid the tempest cease.

In the dark watches of the night,

I'll count his mercies o'er:

I'll praise him for ten thousand past,
And humbly sue for more.

Then, O my soul, why thus deprest?
And whence this anxious fear?
Let former favours fix thy trust,
And check the rising tear.

Here will I rest, and build my hopes,

Nor murmur at his rod;

He's more than all the world to me,
My health, my life, my God.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL,

VITAL spark of heav'nly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they wisper; angels say,

"Sister Spirit, come away.

99

What is this absorbs me quite ; Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!

Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears

With sounds seraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death? where is thy sting?

POPE.

SECTION X.

PRAISE DUE TO GOD FOR HIS WONDERFUL WORKS.

Mr God! all nature owns thy sway;
Thou giv'st the night, and thou the day!
When all thy lov'd creation wakes,
When morning, rich in lustre, breaks,
And bathes in dew the op'ning flow'r,
To Thee we owe her fragrant hour;
And when she pours her choral song,
Her melodies to thee belong!
Or when, in paler tints array'd,

The ev'ning slowly spreads her shade;
That soothing shade, that grateful gloom,
Can, more than day's enliv'ning bloom,
Still ev'ry fond and vain desire,
And calmer, purer thoughts inspire,
From earth the pensive spirit free,
And lead the soften'd heart to thee.
In ev'ry scene thy hands have dress'd,
In ev'ry form by thee impress'd,
Upon the mountain's awful head,

Or where the shelt'ring woods are spread;
In ev'ry note that swells the gale,

Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale,
The cavern's depth, or echoing grove,
A voice is heard of praise, and love.
As o'er thy work the seasons roll,
And soothe, with change of bliss, the soul,
Oh never may their smiling train
Pass o'er the human scene in vain!
But oft, as on the charm we gaze,
Attune the wand'ring soul to praise ;
And be the joys that most we prize