The rising morning can't assure
That we shall end the day
For death stands ready at the door
To take our lives away.
God is our Sun, whose daily light
Our joy and safety brings;
Our feeble frames lie safe at night
Beneath his guardian wings.
The Voice of Nature.
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's pow'r display,
And publishes to ev'ry land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail, The moon takes up her wond'rous tale, And nightly, to the listening earth, Repeats the story of her birth:
While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ;
What though no real voice nor sound
Amidst these radiant orbs be found-
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice-
For ever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."
Dear me, what signifies a pin,
Wedged in a rotten board?
I'm certain that I wont begin,
At ten years old, to hoard!
I never will be called a miser;
No, I'm determin'd to be wiser.
So onward ran the little maid,
And left the pin behind,
Which very snug and quiet laid,
To its own fate resign'd;
Nor did she think, a careless chit,
"Twas worth her while to stop for it.
Next day the party was to ride
To see a friend at noon,
And all the company beside
Were dress'd and ready soon;
But she a woful case was in,
For want of just a single pin!
In vain her eager eye she brings
To ev'ry dusty crack;
There was not one, and yet her things
Were dropping off her back:
She cut her pincushion in two,
But no not one had slidden through.
At last, as hunting on the floor
Over a crack she lay,
The car it rattled to the door-
And rattled fast away;
But poor Eliza was not in,
For want of just a single pin!
There's hardly any thing so small,
So trifling, or so mean,
That we may never want at all,
For service unforeseen :
And wilful waste, depend upon't,
Brings almost always woful want.
Jesus, the shepherd of the sheep!
Thy little flock in safety keep;
The flock for which thou cam'st from heaven-
The flock for which thy life was given.
Thou saw'st them wand'ring far from thee;
Secure, as if from danger free;
Thy love did all their wand'rings trace,
And brings them to a wealthy place.
Oh! guard thy sheep from beasts of prey,
And keep them that they never stray;
Cherish the young, sustain the old,
Let none be feeble in thy fold.
Secure them from the scorching beam,
And lead them to the living stream ;
In verdant pastures let them lie,
And watch them with a shepherd's eye.
O may the sheep discern thy voice,
And its sacred sound rejoice;
From strangers let them ever flee,
And know no other guide but thee!
Lord, bring thy sheep that wander yet,
And let thy number be complete ;
Then let thy flock from earth remove,
Occupy the fold above.
The Pleasures of Religion.
"Tis religion that can give
Sweetest pleasures whilst we live ;
"Tis religion must supply
Solid comforts when we die.
After death its joys shall be
Lasting as eternity:
Let me, then, make God my friend,
And on all his ways attend.
Waiting for hallowing Grace.
On thee, O God of purity!
I wait for hallowing grace;
None without holiness shall see
The glories of thy face.
In souls unholy and unclean,
Thou never canst delight
Nor shall they, while unsav'd from sin,
Appear before thy sight.
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