LXII.

MORNING HYMN FOR A YOUNG PERSON.

ANOTHER Smiling day I see,
Another day, my God! for thee:
To thee may I devote my powers,
And all these bright and happy hours.

Another smiling day I see,

Then let me bend in prayer to thee;
And thank thee for my tranquil rest,
The sleep thy guardian care has blest.

Another smiling day I see,

And various duty points to thee:
Let each devoted action prove

Thy child's unbounded faith and love.

When evening's tranquil shades descend,
With thee this smiling day shall end,
And still the darker shades of night,
Thy presence, Lord! shall gild with light.

L

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.

(At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:

Yet hark! how through the peopled air
The busy murmur grows!

The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honey'd Spring,

And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim,
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man;

And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.

Alike the busy and the gay

But flutter through life's little day,

And if the mist, retiring slow,
Roll round its wavy white,

He thinks the morning vapours hide
Some beauty from his sight.

But when behind the western clouds
Departs the fading day,

How wearily the traveller
Pursues his evening way!

Sorely along the craggy road

And slow, with many a feeble
He labours up the steep.

His painful footsteps creep,

pause,

And if the mists of night close round,
They fill his soul with fear;
He dreads some unseen precipice,
Some hidden danger near.

So cheerfully does youth begin
Life's pleasant morning stage;
Alas! the evening traveller feels
The fears of wary age!

And there follow'd some droppings of rain! But now the fair traveller's come to the west, His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best; He paints the sky gay as he sinks into rest, And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian: his course he begins, Like the sun in a mist when he mourns for his sins, And melts into tears: then he breaks out and shines, And travels his heav'nly way.

But when he comes nearer to finish his race,

Like a fine setting sun he looks richer in grace, And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days, Of rising in brighter array.

LXV.

THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.

THE midnight moon serenely smiles
O'er Nature's soft repose;

No low'ring cloud obscures the sky,
Nor rustling tempest blows.