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THE LABORER'S NOONDAY HYMN.

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THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDAS.

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In th' ocean's bosom, unespied-
From a small boat, that rowed along,
The list'ning winds received this song:

What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels every thing, And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet. But apples-plants of such a price No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by His hand From Lebanon, He stores the land; And makes the hollow seas, that roar, Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple, where to sound His name. O! let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at heaven's vault; Which, then, perhaps rebounding, may Echo beyond the Mexique bay.

Thus sang they, in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

ANDREW MARVELL.

HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID.

WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came,
Her father's God before her moved,

An awful guide in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonished lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands
Returned the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answered keen; And Zion's daughters poured their lays,

With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze—

Forsaken Israel wanders lone;
Our fathers would not know Thy ways,

And Thou hast left them to their own.

But, present still, though now unseen,
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen,

To temper the deceitful ray.
And O, when stoops on Judah's path

In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams-
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn.
But Thou hast said, the blood of goats,
The flesh of rams, I will not prize-
A contrite heart, and humble thoughts,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.

SIR WALTER SCOTT

THE LABORER'S NOONDAY HYMN.

Up to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early morn,
And He accepts the punctual hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim;

Nor will He turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noontide:
Then, here reposing, let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burden be not light,
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestowed
Upon the service of our God!

Each field is then a hallowed spot-
An altar is in each man's cot,
A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.

Look up to heaven! the industrious sun
Already half his race hath run;
He cannot halt nor go astray-
But our immortal spirits may.

Lord! since his rising in the east
If we have faltered or transgressed,
Guide, from Thy love's abundant source,
What yet remains of this day's course.

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Is fasting then the thing that God requires?
Can fasting expiate, or slake those fires
That sin hath blown to such a mighty
flame?

Help with Thy grace, through life's short Can sackcloth clothe a fault, or hide a shame? day,

Our upward and our downward way;
And glorify for us the west,
When we shall sink to final rest.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TO KEEP A TRUE LENT.

Is this a fast-to keep
The larder lean,

And clean

From fat of veals and sheep?

Is it to quit the dish

Of flesh, yet still
To fill

The platter high with fish?

Is it to fast an hour

Or ragged to go-
Or show

A downcast look, and sour

Can ashes cleanse thy blot, or purge thy of

fence?

Or do thy hands make heaven a recompense,
By strewing dust upon thy briny face?
Are these the tricks to purchase heavenly
grace?-

No! though thou pine thyself with willing
want,

Or face look thin, or carcass ne'er so gaunt;
Although thou worser weeds than sackcloth

wear,

Or naked go, or sleep in shirts of hair;
Or though thou choose an ash-tub for thy bed,
Or make a daily dunghill on thy head;-
Thy labor is not poised with equal gains,
For thou hast nought but labor for thy

pains.

Such holy madness God rejects and loathes, That sinks no deeper than the skin or clothes. 'Tis not thine eyes, which, taught to weep

by art,

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CHARITY AND HUMILITY.

'Tis not your mimic mouths, your antic

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faces,

Your Scripture phrases, or affected graces,

Nor prodigal up-banding of thine eyes,

CHARITY AND HUMILITY.

FAR have I clambered in my mind,

Whose gashful balls do seem to pelt the But naught so great as love I find;

skies;

'Tis not the strict reforming of your hair, So close that all the neighbor skull

bare;

is

'Tis not the drooping of thy head so low, Nor yet the lowering of thy sullen brow; Nor wolvish howling that disturbs the air, Nor repetitions, or your tedious prayer: No, no! 'tis none of this, that God regardsSuch sort of fools their own applause rewards;

Deep-searching wit, mount-moving might,
Are naught compared to that good spright.
Life of delight, and soul of bliss!

Sure source of lasting happiness!

Higher than heaven, lower than hell!
What is thy tent? where mayst thou dwell?
My mansion hight Humility,
Heaven's vastest capability—
The further it doth downward tend
The higher up it doth ascend;
If it go down to utmost naught

Such puppet-plays to heaven are strange and It shall return with that it sought.

quaint;

Their service is unsweet, and foully taint; Their words fall fruitless from their idle

brain

But true repentance runs in other strain: Where sad contrition harbors, there the heart

Is truly acquainted with the secret smart
Of past offences-hates the bosom sin
The most, which the soul took pleasure in.
No crime unsifted, no sin unpresented,
Can lurk unseen; and seen, none unlament-
ed.

The troubled soul's amazed with dire aspects
Of lesser sins committed, and detects
The wounded conscience; it cries amain
For mercy, mercy-cries, and cries again;
It sadly grieves, and soberly laments;
It yearns for grace, reforms, returns, re-
pents.

Aye, this is incense whose accepted favor Mounts up the heavenly Throne, and findeth favor;

Aye, this is it whose valor never failsWith God it stoutly wrestles, and prevails; Aye, this is it that pierces heaven above, Never returning home, like Noah's dove, But brings an olive leaf, or some increase That works salvation, and eternal peace. FRANCIS QUARLES.

Lord, stretch Thy tent in my strait

breast

Enlarge it downward, that sure rest
May there be pight; for that pure fire
Wherewith thou wontest to inspire
All self-dead souls. My life is gone-
Sad solitude's my irksome wonne.
Cut off from men and all this world,
In Lethe's lonesome ditch I'm hurled.
Nor might nor sight doth aught me move,
Nor do I care to be above.

O feeble rays of mental light,
That best be seen in this dark night!
What are you? what is any strength
If it be not laid in one length
With pride or love? I naught desire
But a new life, or quite t' expire.
Could I demolish with mine eye
Strong towers, stop the fleet stars in sky,
Bring down to earth the pale-faced inoon,
Or turn black midnight to bright noon-
Though all things were put in my hand-
As parched, as dry, as the Libyan sand
Would be my life, if charity
Were wanting. But humility

Is more than my poor soul durst crave,
That lies intombed in lowly grave.
But if 't were lawful up to send
My voice to heaven, this should it rend:
Lord, thrust me deeper into dust
That Thou mayest raise me with the just!

HENRY MORE

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