Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!

The earth to thee her income yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When, glittering in the freshened fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man.

CAMPBELL.

THE CHILD COMING TO JESUS.

SUFFER me to come to Jesus,
Mother dear, forbid me not;
By his blood from hell he frees us;
Makes us fair without a spot.

Suffer me, my earthly father,
At his pierced feet to fall:
Why forbid me? help me, rather;
Jesus is my all in all.

Suffer me to run unto him;
Gentle sisters, come with me;
Oh that all I love but knew him!
Then my home a heaven would be.

Loving playmates, gay and smiling,
Bid me not forsake the cross;
Hard to bear is your reviling,
Yet, for Jesus, all is dross.

Yes, though all the world have chid me,
Father, mother, sister, friend-

Jesus never will forbid me!

Jesus loves me to the end!

Gentle Shepherd, on thy shoulder
Carry me, a sinful lamb;

Give me faith, and make me bolder,
Till with thee in heaven I am.

M'CHEYNE.

HYMN TO THE SEASONS.

THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love.

Wide flush the fields, the softening air is balm; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense and every heart is joy.

Then comes Thy glory in the Summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year;

And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.

Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that live. In Winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled,

Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing Riding sublime, Thou bidd'st the world adore, And humblest nature with thy northern blast. Mysterious round! what skill, what force Divine,

Deep-felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delighted mixed, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade, unperceiv'd, so softening into shade; And all so forming an harmonious whole; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute, unconscious gaze,

Man marks not Thee; marks not the mighty hand

That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep; shoots, streaming

thence,

The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring:
Flings from the sun, direct, the flaming day;
Feeds every creature, hurls the tempest forth;
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.
Nature, attend! join, every living soul,
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky;
In adoration join; and, ardent, raise

One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes;

Oh talk of Him in solitary glooms,

Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heaven

The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage.

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling

rills;

And let me catch it, as I muse along.

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound;
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze
Along the vale; and thou, majestic main,
A secret world of wonders in thyself,
Sound His stupendous praise; whose greater
voice

Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,

In mingled clouds to Him whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.

Ye forests, bend; ye harvests, wave to Him;
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Great source of day! best image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,

From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On Nature write with every beam His praise.
The thunder rolls! be hushed the prostrate
world!

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound: the broad responsive low, Ye valleys raise; for the great Shepherd reigns; And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves! and when the restless day,

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm The list'ning shades, and teach the night His praise.

Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all,
Crown the great hymn! In swarming cities
vast,

Assembled men, to the deep organ join
The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear,
At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass;
And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardour rise to heaven.