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.

Watts.

$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?

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

My God, who makes the fun to know
His
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?

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!

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.

4

489 The Nunc Dimitis.

Ta enogh the hour is come:

Now in the filent tomb

foretold, prove,

Merrick.

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,
Sexe

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

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.
F

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

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.

Aut