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JOHN QUARLES,

A son of Francis Quarles, inherited much of his father's character and genius. He was educated by Archbishop Usher, upon whose death he wrote an elegy, beginning with these beautiful lines :

Then weep no more ; see how his peaceful breast,

Rocked by the hand of death, takes quiet rest.
Disturb him not; but let him sweetly take

A full repose ; he hath been long awake.” He was for some time engaged in the civil wars, travelled abroad, and returning to London, died of the plague in 1665.

HYMN.

GREAT God, whose sceptre rules the earth,

Distil thy fear into my heart,
That, being rapt with holy mirth,

I may proclaim how good thou art :
Open my lips, that I may sing
Full praises to my God, my King.

Great God, thy garden is defaced,

The weeds thrive there, the flowers decay;
O call to mind thy promise past,
Restore thou them, cut these

away :
Till then let not the weeds have power
To starve or stint the poorest flower.

In all extremes, Lord, thou art still

The mount whereto my hopes do flee;
O make my soul detest all ill,

Because so much abhorred by Thee:
Lord, let thy gracious trials show
That I am just, or make me so.

Shall mountain, desert, beast, and tree,

Yield to that heavenly voice of thine ; And shall that voice not startle me,

Nor stir this stone—this heart of mine? No, Lord, till Thou new-bore mine ear, Thy voice is lost, I cannot hear.

Fountain of light, and living breath,

Whose mercies never fail nor fade,
Fill me with life that hath no death,

Fill me with light that hath no shade ;
Appoint the remnant of my days
To see thy power, and sing thy praise.
Lord, God of gods, before whose throne

Stand storms and fire, O what shall we
Return to heaven, that is our own,

When all the world belongs to Thee ?
We have no offering to impart,
But praises, and a wounded heart.

O Thou that sittest in heaven, and seest

My deeds without, my thoughts within, Be Thou my prince, be Thou my priest, —

Command my soul, and cure my sin : How bitter

my

afflictions be I care not, so I rise to Thee.

What I possess, or what I crave,

Brings no content, great God, to me,
If what I would or what I have

Be not possessed and blessed in Thee:
What I enjoy, oh, make it mine,
In making me—that have it—Thine.

When winter-fortunes cloud the brows

Of summer-friends,—when eyes grow strange, When plighted faith forgets its vows,

When earth and all things in it change,

O Lord, thy mercies fail me never, —
When once Thou lovest, Thou lovest forever

Great God, whose kingdom hath no end,

Into whose secrets none can dive,
Whose mercy none can apprehend,

Whose justice none can feel—and live,
What

my

dull heart cannot aspire
To know, Lord, teach me to admire.

SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE.

SIR Richard BLACKMORE, a poet, physician, and miscellaneous writer, was born in 1654. Among his poems are “ The Creation,” "The Redeemer,” a “Paraphrase on the Book of Job,” and a “ Version of the Psalms.” Blackmore was the butt of contemporary wits. Dryden commenced the persecution, and a host followed. Heedless, however, of this, he went on in his selected path, and he has received his reward in the commendations of such men as Addison, Locke, and Johnson. He died in 1739.

THE HUNDRED AND FOURTEENTH PSALM PARAPHRASED.

When God a thousand miracles had wrought,
The favorite tribes' deliverance to promote,
And marching on in triumph at their head,
Their host to promised Canaan led ;
Then, Jacob, was thy rescued race
Distinguished by peculiar marks of grace;
Their happiness and honor to advance,
He chose them for his own inheritance;
With whom alone their gracious God
Would make his residence and blest abode.

were from heaven instructed to adore
Their God, and with celestial light

was blessed, as Goshen was before,
While all their neighbors lay involved in night.

They

Canaan

God the foundation of their empire laid,
The model of their constitution made ;
He on their throne their King in person sate,
And ruled with equal laws the sacred state.
For this blest purpose Jacob's seed
Was from the Egyptian bondage freed.
When God to do this wondrous work was pleased,
Great consternation nature seized :
The restive floods refused to flow,
Panting with fear, the winds could find no breath to blow,
The astonished sea did motionless become,
Horror its waters did benumb.
The briny waves, that reared themselves to see
The Almighty judgments, and his majesty,
With terror crystallized, began to halt,
Then pillars grew, and rocks of salt.
Jordan, as soon as this great deed it saw,
Struck with a reverential awe,
Started, and with precipitation fled,
The thronging waves ran backward to their head.
Vast hills were moved from out their place,

Terror the mountains did constrain
To lift themselves from off their base,

And on their rocky roots to dance about the plain. The little hills, astonished at the sight, Flew to the mother-mountains in a fright, And did about them skip, as lambs Run to and bleat around their trembling dams. What ailed thee, O thou troubled sea, That thou with all thy watery troops didst flee? What ailed thee, Jordan ? tell the cause That made thy flood break nature's laws; Thy course thou didst not only stop, And roll thy liquid volumes up, But didst e'en backward flow, to kide Within thy fountain's head thy refluent tide. What did the lofty mountains ail ? What pang's

of fear did all the hills assail,

That they their station could not keep,
But, scared with danger, ran like timorous scattered sheep?
But why do I demand a cause
Of your amazement, which deserves applause?
Yours was a just, becoming fear ;
For when th' Almighty does appear,
Not only you, but the whole earth should quake,
And out of reverence should its place forsake.
For He is nature's sovereign Lord,
Who by his great commanding word
Can make the floods to solid crystal grow,
Or melt the rocks, and make their marble flow.

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What if the sinner's magazines are stored
With the rich spoils that Ophir's mines afford ?
What if he spends his happy days and nights
In softest joys and undisturbed delights ?
Where is his hope at last, when God shall wrest
His trembling soul from his reluctant breast ?
Must he not then heaven's vengeance undergo,
Condemned to chains and everlasting wo ?
This is his fate; but often here below
Justice o'ertakes him, though it marches slow.
And when the day of vengeance does appear,
The wretch will cry, but will the Almighty hear?
If, bathed in tears, compassion he invokes,
The unrelenting Judge will multiply his strokes ;
His vain complaints and unregarded prayer
Will drive the raving rebel to despair.
Or will he yet with confidence apply
Himself to God, and on his aid rely ?
Will he not rather cease in his distress
His prayers to heaven hereafter to address ?

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