THE RIGHTEOUS BLESSED.

How bles'd is he who ne'er consents
By ill advice to walk,

Nor stands in sinners' ways, nor sits
Where men profanely talk;

But makes the perfect law of God
His practice and delight;
Devoutly reads thereof by day,
And meditates by night.

Like some fair tree, which fed by streams,
With timely fruit doth bend;

He still shall flourish, and success
His just designs attend.

Ungodly men and their attempts
No lasting rest shall find;
Untimely blasted and dispers'd
Like chaff before the wind.

For God approves the just man's ways;
To happiness they tend;

But all the paths which sinners tread,
In shame and ruin end.

TRUE RESIGNATION,

On had I the wings of a dove,

I'd make my escape and be gone;

I'd mix with the spicits above,

Who encompass you beavenly throne:

I'd fly from all labour and toil,

To the place where the weary have rest;

I'd haste from contention and broil,

To the peaceful abode of the blest.

How happy are they who no more

Have to fear the assaults of the foe, Arriv'd on the heavenly shore,

They have left all their conflicts below, They are far from all danger and fear, While remembrance enhances their joys: As the storm, when escap'd, will endear/ The retreat that the haven supplies.

Around that magnificent throne,

Where the Lamb all his glory displays; United for ever in one,

His people are singing bis praise.
How holy, how happy are they!
No tongue can express their delight!
My soul, now unwilling to stay.
Prepares for her heavenly flight,
But why do I wish to be gone?
Do I want from the danger to flee?

And shall I do nothing for one,

Who was once such a suff rer for me?

Oh Lord! let me think of the day
When thou wast" rejected of men,"

And put the base wish far away,
And never be fearful again.

Nor less my perverseness forgive,

That when ease and prosperity come,

Thy servant is willing to live,

And his èxite prefers to his home:

Oh Lord! what a creature am I,

Sure nothing can heighten my guilt: Forgive me, forgive me I cry, And make me whatever thou wilt.

WE ARE SEVEN.

A simple child, dear brother Jem,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in ev'ry limb,
What should it know of death.

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl, That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her face was fair, and very fair,
Her beauty made me glad!

Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?
How many?-seven in all,-she said,
And wond ring, look'd at me.

And where are they? I pray you tell,
She answer'd, sev'n are we,
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the Church-yard lie,
A sister and a brother:
And in the Churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them, with my mother.

You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;
Yet you are seven, I pray you tell,
Sweet maid how can this be?

Then did the little maid reply,
Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the Church-yard lie,
Beneath the Church-yard tree.

You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive,

If two are in the Church-yard laid,
Then you are only five.

Their graves are green, they may be seen,
The little maid replied,

Twelve steps or more, from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
I sit and sing to them.

And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair;
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died, was little Jane,
In bed she moaning lay;
'Till God releas'd her of her pain,
And then she went away.

So in the Church-yard, she was laid,
And all the summerdry;
Together round her grave we play'd,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide;

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side.