THE ROSE.

1 How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower!
The glory of April and May!

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.

2 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field:

When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Though they bloom and look gay like the rose:
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain;
Time kills them as fast as he goes.

4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade:

But gain a good name by well doing my duty;
This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead.

A CRADLE HYMN.

1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.

2 Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care or payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.

3 How much better thou 'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven he descended,
And became a child like thee!

4 Soft and easy in thy cradle:

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When his birthplace was a stable,
And his softest bed was hay.

5 Blessed babe! what glorious features,
Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must he dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?

6 Was there nothing but a manger
Cursed sinners could afford,
To receive the heavenly Stranger!
Did they thus affront their Lord?

7 Soft, my child, I did not chide thee,
Though my song might sound too hard;

'Tis thy

४

mother 1

sits beside thee,

nurse that
And her arms shall be thy guard.

8 Yet to read the shameful story,
How the Jews abused their King,
How they served the Lord of glory,
Makes me angry while I sing.

9 See the kinder shepherds round him,
Telling wonders from the sky!

Where they sought him, where they found him,
With his virgin mother by.

10 See the lovely babe a-dressing;
Lovely infant, how he smiled!
When he wept, the mother's blessing
Soothed and hushed the holy child.

1 Here you may use the words, brother, sister, neighbour, friend.

VOL. III.

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97

11 Lo! he slumbers in his manger,

Where the horned oxen fed:
Peace, my darling, here's no danger,
Here's no ox a-near thy bed.

12 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,
Save my dear from burning flame,
Bitter groans, and endless crying,
That thy blest Redeemer came.

13 Mayst thou live to know and fear him,
Trust and love him, all thy days;
Then go dwell for ever near him,
See his face, and sing his praise!

14 I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I most desire;
Not a mother's fondest wishes
Can to greater joys aspire.

BREATHING TOWARD THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY.

The beauty of my native land
Immortal love inspires;

I burn, I burn with strong desires, And sigh and wait the high command. There glides the moon her shining way, And shoots my heart through with a silver ray, Upward my heart aspires:

A thousand lamps of golden light,

Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight, And wink and beckon with their amorous fires.

ye fair glories of my heavenly home,

Bright sentinels who guard my Father's court,

Where all the happy minds resort!
When will my Father's chariot come?

Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round,

For ever see the mourner lie
An exile of the sky,

A prisoner of the ground?

Descend, some shining servants from on high,
Build me a hasty tomb;

A grassy turf will raise my head;
The neighbouring lilies dress my

bed,

And shed a sweet perfume.
Here I put off the chains of death,
My soul too long has worn:
Friends, I forbid one groaning breath,
Or tear to wet my urn.

Raphael, behold me all undressed;
Here gently lay this flesh to rest,

Then mount and lead the path unknown. Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own.

TO THE REV. MR JOHN HOWE.

Great man, permit the muse to climb,
And seat her at thy feet;

Bid her attempt a thought sublime,

And consecrate her wit.

I feel, I feel the attractive force

Of thy superior soul:

My chariot flies her upward course,

The wheels divinely roll.

Now let me chide the mean affairs
And mighty toil of men:

How they grow gray in trifling cares,
Or waste the motion of the spheres
Upon delights as vain!

A puff of honour fills the mind,
And yellow dust is solid good;

Thus, like the ass of savage kind,
We snuff the breezes of the wind,
Or steal the serpent's food.
Could all the choirs

That charm the poles

But strike one doleful sound,
"Twould be employed to mourn our souls,
Souls that were framed of sprightly fires,
In floods of folly drowned.

Souls made for glory seek a brutal joy;
How they disclaim their heavenly birth,

Melt their bright substance down to drossy earth, And hate to be refined from that impure alloy.

Oft has thy genius roused us hence

With elevated song,

Bid us renounce this world of sense,

Bid us divide the immortal prize

With the seraphic throng:

'Knowledge and love make spirits blest, Knowledge their food, and love their rest;' But flesh, the unmanageable beast,

Resists the pity of thine eyes,

And music of thy tongue.

Then let the worms of grovelling mind
Round the short joys of earthly kind
In restless windings roam;

Howe hath an ample orb of soul,

Where shining worlds of knowledge roll,
Where love, the centre and the pole,
Completes the heaven at home.