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He who sits from day to day, Where the prison's lark is hung, Heedless of his loudest lay, Hardly knows that he has sung. Daily visitations come, Publishing to all aloud, Soon the grave must be your home, And your only suit a shroud. But the monitory strain, Oft repeated in our ears, Seems to sound too much in vain, Wins no notice, wakes no fears. Pleasure's call attention wins, Hear it often as we may; New as ever seem our sins, Though committed every day. Death and judgment, heaven and bell, 'These alone, so often heard, No more move us than the bell, When some stranger is interred. Oh, then, ere the turf or tomb Cover us from every eye, Spirit of instruction, come, Make us learn that we must die !


Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1803.


EARTH has not any thing to shew more fair.
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty.
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will :
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep!
And all that mighty heart is lying still!


[Wilson.] A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on,

O'er the still radiance of the lake below below: Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,

F'en in its very motion there was rest, While every breath of eve that chanc'd to blow,

Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,

And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onward to the golden gates of heaven. Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.



O GOD of Abram! by whose hand

Thy people still are fed;
Who, through this weary pilgrimage,

Hast all our fathers led !

Our vows, our prayers, we now present

Before thy throne of grace;
God of our fathers, be the God

Of their succeeding race.
Through each perplexing path of life

Our wandering footsteps guide,
Give us each day our daily bread,

And raiment fit provide !
O spread thy covering wings around,

Till all our wanderings cease,
And at our Father's lov'd abode

Our feet arrive in peace!
Now with the humble voice of prayer

Thy mercy we implore;
Then with the grateful voice of praise

Thy goodness we'll adore.



Was it but yesterday I heard the roar
Of these white coursing waves, and trod this shore,
A young and playful child,-but yesterday?
Now I return, with locks of scatter'd grey,
And wasted strength; for many, many years
Have pass’d, some mark'd by joy, and some by tears
Since last we parted : as I gaze around,
I think of Time's feet step, that makes no sound.

In yonder vale, beneath the hill-top tow'r,
My father deck'd the village pastor's bow'r:
Now he, and all, between whose knees I play'd,
Cold, in the narrow cell of death are laid:
My Father !' to the lonely surge I sigh,
My Father!' the lone surge seems to reply.
Yet the same shells and sea-weeds seem to strew
This sandy margin, as when life was new.
I mourn not Time's inevitable tide,
Whose swift career ten thousand feel beside;
I mourn not for the days that are no more;
But come, a stranger, Weston, to thy shore,
In search of Health, alone, and woo the breeze
That wanders o'er thy solitary seas;
To chase the mists from these oppressed eyes,
And renovate life's languid energies.


[c, WESLEY.] Thou Judge of quick and dead,

Before whose bar severe, With holy joy or guilty dread,

We all shall soon appear:
Our sinful souls prepare

For that tremendous day;
And fill us now with watchful care,

And stir us up to pray.
To pray and wait the hour

That awful hour unknown; When robed in majesty and power,

Thou shalt from heaven come down, Th’immortal Son of man,

To judge the human race,
With all thy Father's dazzling train,

With all thy glorious grace.
To damp our earthly joys,

T'increase our gracious fears, For ever let th’ Archangel's voice

Be sounding in our ears. The solemn midnight cry,

• Ye dead, the Judge is come; Arise, and meet him in the sky,

And meet your instant doom!'
O may we thus be found,

Obedient to his word;
Attentive to the trumpet's sound,

And looking for our Lord !
O may we all insure

A lot among the blest!
And watch a moment, to secure

An everlasting rest.

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