Oh, the vain conceit of man,

Dreaming of a good his own,
Arrogating all he can,

Though the Lord is good alone!

He, the graces Thou hast wrought, Makes subservient to his pride; Ignorant, that one such thought Passes all his sin beside.

Such his fully-prov'd, at last,
By the loss of that repose
Self complacence cannot taste,
Only Love divine bestows.

'Tis by this reproof severe,

And by this reproof alone,

His defects at last appear,

Man is to himseif made known.

Learn, all Earth! that feeble Man, Sprung from this terrestial clod, Nothing is, and nothing can;

Life, and pow'r, are all in God.

LOVE

INCREASED BY SUFFERING.

Vol. 3. Cantique 98.

"I love the Lord," is still the strain
This heart delights to sing;

But I reply your thoughts are vain,
Perhaps 'tis no such thing.

Before the power of Love divine

Creation fades away;

Till only God is seen to shine

In all that we survey.

In gulphs of awful night we find

The God of our desires;

'Tis there he stamps the yielding mind, And doubles all its fires.

Flames of encircling Love invest,

And pierce it sweetly through; 'Tis fill'd with sacred joy, yet press'd With sacred sorrow too.

Ah Love my heart is in the right-
Amidst a thousand woes,

To thee, its ever new delight,
And all its peace, it owes.

Fresh causes of distress occur,
Where'er I look, or move;
The comforts, I to all prefer,
Are solitude and love.

Nor exile 1, nor prison fear;

Love makes my courage great;

I find a Saviour ev'ry where,
His grace in ev'ry state.

Nor castle walls, nor dungeons deep, Exclude his quick'ning beams; There I can sit, and sing, and weep, And dwell on heav'nly themes.

There, sorrow, for his sake, is found

A joy beyond compare ;

There, no presumptuous thoughts abound, No pride can enter there.

A Saviour doubles all my joys,
And sweetens all my pains,

His strength in my defence employs,
Consoles me and sustains.

I fear no ill, resent no wrong;

Nor feel a passion move,

When malice whets her sland'rous tongue;

Such patience is in Love,

SCENES FAVOURABLE TO MEDITATION.

Vol. 4. Cantique 83.

WILDS horrid and dark with o'ershadowing trees, Rocks that ivy and briars infold,

Scenes nature with dread and astonishment sees,

But I with a pleasure untold.

Though awfully silent, and shaggy, and rude,
I am charm'd with the peace ye afford,
Your shades are a temple where none will intrude,
The abode of my Lover and Lord.

I am sick of thy splendor, O fountain of day,
And here I am hid from its beams,
Here safely contemplate a brighter display
Of the noblest and holiest of themes.