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My God, I hate to walk or dwell
With finful children here:
Then let me not be sent to hell,
Where none but finners are

$75. Against Pride in Clothes. Watts.
WHY thould our garments, made to hide
Our parents' fhame, provoke our pride?
The art of dress did ne'er begin
Till Eve, our mother, learnt to fin.
When first she put the cov'ring on,
Her robe of innocence was gone;
And yet her children vainly boast
In the fad marks of glory lost.
How proud we are! how fond to shew
Our clothes, and call them rich and new!
When the poor fheep and filkworm wore
That very clothing long before.
The tulip and the butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I:
Let me be drest fine as I will,
Flies, worms, and flow`rs, exceed me ftill.
Then will I fet my heart to find
Inward adornings of the mind;
Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace:
These are the robes of richest drefs.

No more fhall worms with me compare;
This is the raiment angels wear;
The Son of God, when here below,
Put on this blest apparel too.
It never fades, it ne'er grows old;
Nor fears the rain, nor moth, nor mould:
It takes no spot, but still refines;
The more 'tis worn, the more it shines.
In this on earth would I appear,
Then go to heav'n and wear it there,
God will approve it in his fight;
'Tis his own work, and his delight.


$76. Obedience to Parents. LET children that would fear the Lord Hear what their teachers say; With rev'rence meet their parent's word, And with delight obey.

Have you not heard what dreadful plagues
Are threaten'd by the Lord,

To him that breaks his father's law,
Or mocks his mother's word?
What heavy guilt upon him lies!
How curfed is his name!

The ravens fhall pick out his eyes,
And eagles eat the fame.

But those who worship God, and give
Their parents honour due,
Here on this earth they long fhall live,
And live hereafter too.

$77. The Child's Complaint. Watts. WHY fhould I love my fport fo well, So conftant at my play,

And lofe the thoughts of heav'n and hell, And then forget to pray?

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§ 78. A Morning and Evening Song. Wat Morning Song.

My God, who makes the fun to know
proper hour to rife,

And to give light to all below,

Doth fend him round the fkies. When from the chambers of the east His morning race begins,

He never tires, nor ftops to rest,

But round the world he fhines.
So, like the fun, would I fulfil
The bus nefs of the day:
Begin my work betimes, and still
March on my heav'nly way.
Give me, O Lord, thy early grace,
Nor let my foul complain

That the young morning of my days
Has all been fpent in vain!

Evening Song.

AND now another day is gone,

I'll fing my Maker's praife:
My comforts ev'ry hour make known,
His providence and grace.

But how my childhood runs to waste!
My fins, how great their fum!
Lord, give me pardon for the past,
And strength for days to come.

I lay my body down to fleep;
Let angels guard my head,

And through the hours of darkness keep
Their watch around my bed.
With cheerful heart I close my eyes,
Since thou wilt not remove;
And in the morning let me rife,
Rejoicing in thy love.

§ 79. For the Lord's Day Morning. Wat THIS is the day when Christ arose

So early from the dead;
Why fhould I keep my eye-lids clos'd,
And waste my hours in bed?
This is the day when Jesus broke

The pow'r of death and hell?
And fhall I ftill wear Satan's yoke,
And love thy fins fo well?

Today with pleasure Christians meet
Top, and hear the word:
And go with cheerful feet
To learn thy will, O Lord.

Mave my sport to read and pray,
Aad to prepare for heaven;
Day I love this bleffed day
The bett of all the feven!

80. For the Lord's Day Evening. Loan, bow drightful 'tis to fee

A what ably worship thee!

If we had been ducks, we might dabble in mud,
Or dogs, we might play till it ended in blood;
So foul and fo fierce are their natures:
But Thomas and William,andfuch prettynames,
Should be cleanly and harmless as doves or as
Those lovely sweet innocent creatures.{lambs,
Not a thing that we do, nor a word that we say,
Should hinder another in jefting or play;

For he's still in earnest that's hurt: [mire!
How rude are the boys that throw pebbles and
Watts. There's none but a madman willfing about fire,
And tell you ""Tis all but in fport."

At once they fing, at once they pray;
Tary hear of beav'n, and learn the way.
I have been there, and still would go;
Take a little heav'n below :
Not all ay pleafure and my play
Stempt me to forget this day.
O write upon my mem'ry, Lord,
The texts and doctrines of thy word;
That I may break thy laws no more,
Babove the better than before.
Wees of Chrift, and things divine,
Foth heart of mine;
Tardon thro' his blood,
Ind wake with God.

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* have wak'd me too foon, I must flumber

§ 83. The Rofe. Watts.

How fair is'tlie Rofe! what a beautiful flow'r!
The glory of April and May!

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

Yet the rofe has one powerful virtue to boaft,
Above all the flow'rs of the field: [loft,
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Tho' they bloom and look gay like the rofe;
But all our fond care to preferve them is vain;
Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proudof my youth or mybeauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;

But gain a good name by well doing my duty:
This will fcent like a rofe when I'm dead.

$ 84. The Thief. Watts,

Of his goods against his will?
Hands were made for honeft labour,
Not to plunder or to steal.
'Tis a foolish felf-deceiving,

By fuch tricks to hope for gain :
All that's ever got by thieving

the dooron its hinges, fo he on his bed [head. WHY fhould I deprive my neighbour Taides and his fhoulders, and his heavy *Aterore fleep and a little more flumber." The waftes half his days, and his hours without number; And he gets up, he fits folding his hands, about fauntring, or trifling he ftands. his garden and faw the wild brier, & the thittle grow broader & higher; Testhathang onhim are turning to rags; moneyftill waftes,till heftarves or hebegs ara a vifit, ftill hoping to find

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better care for improving his mind; zaisdreams,talk'd of eating & drinking, reads his Bible, and never loves sking.

to my heart," Here's a leffon for me;
but a picture of what I might be;
to my friends for their care in my
Ame betimes to love working and

Innocent Play. Watts. Azate meadows, tofee the younglambs, Rbout by the fide of their dams, We clean and fo white; ang doves in a large open cage, they all in love, without anger or rage; base may learn from the fight!

Turns to forrow, fhame, and pain.
Have not Eve and Adam taught us

Their fad profit to compute?
To what difmal state they brought us,
When they stole forbidden fruit!
Oft we fee a young beginner

Practife little pilfering ways,
Till grown up a harden'd finner:

Then the gallows ends his days.
Theft will not be always hidden,

Though we fancy none can spy:
When we take a thing forbidden,

God beholds it with his eye.
Guard my heart, O God of heaven,
Left I covet what's not mine;
Left I steal what is not given,

Guard my heart and hands from fin.

§ 85. The Ant, or Emmet. Watts. THESE emmets, howlittle they are in our eyes! We tread them to duft, and a troop of them dies,


Without our regard or concern:

Yet as wife as we are, if we went to their school,
There's many a fluggard, and many a fool,
Some leffons of wisdom might learn.
They don'twear their time out infleeping or play,
But gather up corn in a fun-fhiny day.

And for winter they lay up their stores:
They manage their work in fuch regular forms,
One would think they forefaw all the frofts and
the ftorms,

And fo brought their food within doors.
But I have lefs sense than a poor creeping ant,
If I take not due care for the things I fhall want,
Nor provide againft dangers in time :
When death or old age shall ftare in my face,
What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days,
If I trifle away all their prime!

Now, now, while my ftrength and my youth are
in bloom,
Let me think what will ferve me when ficknets
[fhall come,
And pray that my fins be forgiven:
Let me read in good books,and believe and obey,
That, when death turns me out of this cottage
I may dwell in a palace in heaven. [of clay,

§ 86. Good Refolutions. Watts.
THOUGH I am now in younger days,
Nor can tell what fhall befal me,
I'll prepare for ev'ry place

Where my growing age fhall call me.
Should I e'er be rich or great,

Others fhall partake my goodness; I'll fupply the poor with meat, Never fhewing fcorn or rudeness. Where I fee the blind or lame,

Deaf or dumb, I'll kindly treat them;
I deferve to feel the fame;

If I mock, or hurt, or cheat them.
If I meet with railing tongues,
Why fhould I return them railing?
Since Í best revenge my wrongs

By my patience never failing.
When I hear them telling lies,
Talking foolish, curfing, fwearing;
First I'll try to make them wife,

Or I'll foon go out of hearing. What though I be low and mean,

I'll engage the rich to love me,
While I'm modeft, neat and clean,
And fubmit when they reprove me.
If I fhould be poor and fick,

I fhail meet, I hope, with pity;
Since I love to help the weak,
Though they're neither fair ror witty.
I'll not willingly offend,

Nor be easily offended:
What's amifs I'll strive to mend,

And endure what can't be mended.

May I be fo watchful still
O'er my humours and my paffion,
As to speak and do no ill,

Though it should be all the fashion!
Wicked fashions lead to hell;
Ne'er may I be found complying;
But in life behave fo well,
Not to be afraid of dying.

§87. A Summer Evening. Watts. How fine has the day been, how bright w the fun,

How lovely and joyful the course that he ru
Though he rofe in a mist whenhis race he begi

And there followed fome droppings of rai
But now the fair traveller's come to the wel
His rays all are gold, and his beauties are be
He paints the sky gay as hè sinks to his rest,
Juft fuch is the Christian: his course he begi
And foretels a bright rifing again.
Like the fun in a mist,whenhemourns for his
And melts into tears; thenhe breaks out &thin
But, when he comes nearer to finish his race
And travels his heavenly way:
Like a fine fetting fun, he looks richer in
And gives a fure hope at the end of his day
Of rifing in brighter array!

§ 88. A Cradle Hymn,


HUSH! my dear, lie ftill and flumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heav'nly bleffings, without number,
Gently falling on thy head.

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.
How much better thou'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be;
When from heav'n he defcended,
And became a child like thee !
Soft and eafy is thy cradle,

Coarfe and hard thy Saviour lay;
When his birth-place was a stable,
And his fofteft bed was hay.
Bleffed babe! what glorious features
Spotless fair divinely bright!
Mut he dwell with brutal creatures!
How could angels bear the fight?
Was there nothing but a manger
Curfed finners could afford,
To receive the heav'nly stranger?

Did they thus affront their Lord!
Soft, my child! I did not chide thee,
Though my fong might found too hard!

"Tis thy { mother

nurfe that

}fits be fide thee,

And her arms shall be thy guard.

• Here you may use the words Brother, Sifter, Neighbour, Friend, &C.


Yet to read the fhameful ftory,
How the Jews abus'd their King,
How they ferv'd the Lord of glory,
Makes me angry while I fing.

See the kinder thepherds round him,
Telling wonders from the sky!

Ye angels, that with loud acclaim
Admiring view'd the new-born frame,
And hail'd the Eternal King,
Again proclaim yonr Maker's praife;
Again your thankful voices raise,
And touch the tuneful ftring.

Where they fought him, there they found him, Praife him, ye bleft æthereal plains,

With has Virgin mother by.

See the lonely babe a-dreffing, Levels It, how he fmil'd! When he west, the Mother's bleffing Such and hath'd the holy child. Lembers in his manger, Where the bored oxen fed: Peace, my darling, here's no danger,, Fresno ox a-near thy bed. Twas to are thee, child, from dying, Sve v dear from burning flame, Ens, and endless crying, Ty bleft Redeemer came. Mathou live to know and fear him, Tt and love him all thy days; Tot for ever near him, See his fact, and fing his praise! I could give the thoufand kiffes, Hat I must defire; Not a mother's fondeft wishes Can to greater joys afpire.


489 The Nunc Dimitis.

Ta enogh the hour is come:

Now in the filent tomb

foretold, prove,


Let this mortal frame decay,
is kindred clay;
Sms Artes, oft of old
Byen ers
Fa row and fed faft
God of truth, and God of love!
seat length my aged eye
Sees the day-pring from on high!
Sa af nighteoufnels, to thee,
Lo the nations bow the knee;
And the reans of diftant kings

the healing of thy wings.
The whom death had overlpread
Was dark and dreary thade,
Leres, and from afar
Hght of Jacob's Star;
Wag the promis'd ray
The darkness into day.
Sms, intenfely thed,

Never they hence remove,
Go truth, and God of love!

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Where, in full majefty, he deigns

To fix his awful throne:

Ye waters that above him roll,
From orb to orb, from pole to pole,
O make his praises known!

Ye thrones, dominions, virtues, pow'rs,
Join ye your joyful fongs with ours;
With us your voices raife;
From age to age extend the lay,
To Heaven's Eternal Monarch pay
Hymns of eternal praise.
Celestial orb! whofe powerful ray
Opes the glad eyelids of the day,

Whole influence all things own;
Praife him, whofe courts effulgent thine
With light as far excelling thine,

As thine the paler moon.
Ye glitt'ring planets of the sky,
Whofe lamps the absent fun supply,
With him the fong pursue;
And let himself fubmiffive own,
He borrows from a brighter Sun
The light he lends to you.

Ye fhow'rs and dews, whofe moisture shed
Calls into life the op'ning feed,

To him your praises yield,

Whofe influence wakes the genial birth, Drops fatnefs on the pregnant earth,

And crowns the laughing field. Ye winds, that oft tempeftuous sweep The ruffled furface of the deep,

With us confefs your God;
See thro' the heav'ns the King of kings,
Upborne on your expanded wings,
Come flying all abroad.

Ye floods of fire, where'er ye flow,
With juft fubmiffion humbly bow
To his fuperior pow'r,
Who ftops the tempelt on its way,
Or bids the flaming deluge ftray,

And gives it ftrength to roar.
Ye fummer's heat, and winter's cold,
By turns in long fucceffion roll'd,

The drooping world to cheer,
Praife him who gave the fun and moon
To lead the various feasons on,

And guide the circling year.

Ye frofts, that bind the wat'ry plain,
Ye filent fhow'rs of fleecy rain,

Puríue the heav'nly theme;
Praise him who fheds the driving fnow,
Forbids the harden'd waves to flow,

And ftops the rapid stream.


Ye days and nights, that swiftly borne
From morn to eve, from eve to morn,
Alternate glide away,

Praise him, whofe never-varying light,
Abient, adds horror to the night,

But, prefent, gives the day.

Light, from whofe rays all beauty springs; Darkness, whofe wide-expanded wings

Involve the dusky globe;

Praise him, ye beasts, that nightly roam Amid the folitary gloom,

Th' expected prey to feize; Ye flaves of the laborious plough, Your ftubborn necks fubmiffive bow,

And bend your wearied knees. Ye fons of men, his praise display, Who flamp'd his image on your clay,

And gave it pow'r to move; that in Judah's confines dwell, From age to age fucceffive tell

Praise him who, when the heav'ns he fpread,Ye Darkness his thick pavilion made,

And light his regal robe.

Praise him, ye lightnings, as ye fly
Wing'd with his vengeance thro' the sky,
And red with wrath divine;
Praise him, ye clouds that wand'ring stray,
Or, fix'd by him, in close array

Surround his awful thrine.

Exalt, O Earth! thy Heav'nly King,
Who bids the plants that form the spring
With annual verdure bloom;
Whofe frequent drops of kindly rain,
Prolific fwell the rip'ning grain,

And blefs thy fertile womb.

Ye mountains; that ambitious rife,
And heave your fummits to the skies,
Revere his awful nod;

Think how you once affrighted fled;
When Jordan fought his fountain-head,
And own'd the approaching God.
Ye trees, that fill the rural scene;
Ye flow'rs, that o'er the enamell'd green
In native beauty reign;
O praise the Ruler of the skies,
Whofe hand the genial fap fupplies,
And elothes the fmiling plain."
Ye fecret fprings, ye gentle rills,
That murm'ring rife among the hills,
Or fill the humble vale;
Praise him, at whofe Almighty nod
The rugged roek diffolving flow'd,

And form'd a fpringing well.
Praise him, ye floods, and feas profound,
Whofe waves the fpacious earth furround,
And roll from thore to fhore;
Aw'd by his voice, ye feas, fubfide;
Ye floods, within your channels glide,
And tremble and adore.

Ye whales, that ftir the boiling deep,
Or in its dark recesses sleep,

Remote from human eye,
Praise him by whom ye all are fed;
Praise him, without whofe heavenly aid
Ye languish, faint, and die.
Ye birds, exalty our Maker's name;
Begin, and with th' important theme
Your artle's lays improve;
Wake with your fongs the rifing day,
Let mufic found on ev'ry fpray,
And fill the vocal grove.

The wonders of his love.

Let Levi's tribe the lay prolong,
Till angels liften to the song,

And bend attentive down;
Let wonder feize the heavenly train,
Pleas'd while they hear a mortal strain
So fweet, fo like their own.
And you your thankful voices join,
That oft at Salem's facred fhrine

Before his altars kneel;
Where thron'd in majesty he dwells,
And from thy myftic cloud reveals
The dictates of his will.

Ye fpirits of the just and good,
That, eager for the blefs'd abode,

To heavenly mantions foar;
O let your fongs his praife difplay,
Till heaven itself shall melt away,
And time fhall be no more!
Praise him, ye meek and humble train,
Ye faints, whom his decrees ordain

The boundlefs blifs to fhare;
O praife him, till ye take your way
To regions of eternal day,

And reign for ever there.
Let us, who now impaffive ftand,
Aw'd by the tyrant's ftern command,
Amid the fiery blaze;
While thus we triumph in the flame,
Rife, and our Maker's love proclaim,
In hymns of endless praise.

§ 91. The Ignorance of Man. Merrick
BEHOLD yon new-born infant griev'd
With hunger, thirst, and pain;
That afks to have the wants reliev'd,
It knows not to complain.
Aloud the fpeechlefs fuppliant cries,
And utters, as it can,
The woes that in its bofom rise,

And speak its nature-man.
That infant, whose advancing hour

Life's various forrows try
(Sad proof of fin's tranfmiffive pow'r),
That infant, Lord, am I.

A childhood yet my thoughts confels,
Though long in years mature;
Unknowing whence I feel distress,
And where, or what, its cure.


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