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Shrink, trembling,-till their wand'ring eyes discern
The countenance of Jesus beaming love

And pity; eager then they stretch their arms,
And, cow'ring, lay their heads upon his breast.

ROBERT

BLOOMFIELD.

BORN, 1766; DIED, 1823.

SOLITUDE.

WELCOME silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holy shade!
Thus I prove, as years increase,

My heart and soul for quiet made.
Thus I fix my firm belief,

While rapture's gushing tears descend,
That every flower and every leaf
Is moral truth's unerring friend.

I would not, for a world of gold,
That nature's lovely face should tire;
Fountain of blessings yet untold;

Pure source of intellectual fire!
Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,
Unquicken'd 'midst the world's rude strife,
Shall sweet retirement render strong,
And morning silence bring to life.

Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.
I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please; and each in turn

Yield reason's most supreme delight,

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To rural gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,

That one Great Spirit governs all.

O heaven permit that I

may lie.

Where o'er my corpse, green branches wave:
And those who from life tumults fly,
With kindred feelings press my grave.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

BORN, 1770; DIED, 1850.

THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY 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 noon-tide;
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.

Bless'd are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this our hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestow'd
Upon the service of our God!

Why should we crave a hallowed spot?
An altar is in each man's cot,

A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.

HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID.

Look up to heaven! th' 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.

Help with thy grace through life's short day,
Our upward and our downward way;

And glorify for us the west,

When we shall sink to final rest.

JEHOVAH THE PROVIDER.

AUTHOR of being! life-sustaining King!

Lo! want's dependent eye from Thee implores
The seasons, which provide nutritious stores;
Give to her prayers the renovating spring,
And summer-heats all perfecting that bring

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The fruits which autumn from a thousand stores
Selecteth provident! when earth adores

Her God, and all her vales exulting sing.
Without thy blessing, the submissive steer
Bends to the ploughman's galling yoke in vain ;
Without thy blessing on the varied year,

Can the swarth reaper grasp the golden grain?
Without thy blessing, all is black and drear;
With it, the joys of Eden bloom again.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.
BORN, 1771; DIED, 1832.

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 astonish'd lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands
Return'd the fiery column's glow.
There rose the choral hymn of praise,
And trump and timbrel answer'd keen;
And Zion's daughters pour'd 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 oh, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long-suff'ring, 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, harp, and horn:
But Thou hast said,-" The blood of goat,
The flesh of rams I will not prize;
A contrite heart, an humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice."

JAMES MONTGOMERY.
BORN, 1771.

THE VISIBLE CREATION.
THE God of nature and of grace

In all his works appears;

His goodness through the earth we trace, His grandeur in the spheres.

THE VISIBLE CREATION.

Behold this fair and fertile globe,
By him in wisdom plann'd;
'Twas he who girded, like a robe,
The ocean round the land.

Lift to the firmament your eye,
Thither his path pursue;
His glory, boundless as the sky,
O'erwhelms the wondering view.

He bows the heavens--the mountains stand
A highway for their God;
He walks amidst the desert land,

'Tis Eden where he trod.

The forests in his strength rejoice;
Hark! on the evening breeze,
As once of old, the Lord God's voice,
Is heard among the trees.

Here on the hills he feeds his herds,
His flocks on yonder plains:
His praise is warbled by the birds;
Oh, could we catch their strains!

Mount with the lark, and bear our song
Up to the gates of light;

Or, with the nightingale prolong
Our numbers through the night!

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His blessings fall in plenteous showers

Upon the lap of earth,

That teems with foliage, fruit, and flowers,

And rings with infant mirth.

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