78. Against Pride in Clothes. WATTS.

WHY fhould our garments, made to hide
Our parents shame, provoke our pride?
The art of drefs did ne'er begin
Till Eve, our mother, learnt to fin.

When firft the put the cov'ring on,
Her robe of innocence was gone;
And her children vainly boaft
yet
In the fad marks of glory loft.

How proud we are! how fond to fhetv
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 dreft 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:
Thefe are the robes of richeft drefs.
No more fhall worms with me compare;
This is the raiment angels wear;
The Son of God, when here below,
Put on this bleft 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 fhines.
In this on earth fhould 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.

$79. Obedience to Parents. WATTS. LET children that would fear the Lord Hear what their teachers fay; With rev'rence meet their parents 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 cat the fame.

But thofe who worship God, and give
Their parents honour due,

Here on this carth they long shall live,
And live hereafter too.

What do I read my Bible for,

But, Lord, to learn thy will? And thall I daily know thee more, And lefs obey thee still?

How fenfeless is my heart, and wild?
How vain are all my thoughts
Pity the weakness of a child,

And pardon all my faults.

Make me thy heav'nly voice to hear,
And let me love to pray;

Since God will lend a gracious car
To what a child can say.

§ 81. A Morning and Evening Song. WA 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 skies!
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 ftill
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 spent in vain!

Evening Song.

AND now another day is gone

I'll fing my Maker's praife:
My comfor ev'ry hour make known
His providence and grace.
But how my childhood runs to wafte!
My fins, how great their fum !
Lord, give me pardon for the paft,
And strength for days to come.

I lay my body down to fleep;
Let angels guard my head,

And through the hours of darknefs 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.

Where I fee the blind or lame,

Deaf or demb, I'll kindly treat them; I deferve to feel the fame,

If I mock, or hurt, or cheat them.

If I meet with railing tongues,
Way should I return them railing?
Since I beft revenge my wrongs
By my patience never failing.
When I hear them telling lyes,
Talking foolish, curting, fwearing;
First I'll try to make them wife,
Or I'll foon go out of hearing.
What though I be low and mean,
I'll engage the rich to love me,
While I'm modeft, neat, and clean,
And fubmit when they reprove me.
If I fhould be poor and fick,

I shall meet, I hope, with pity;
Since I love to help the weak,
Though they're neither fair nor witty.
I'll not willingly offend,

Nor be cafily offended!
What's amifs I'll strive to mend,

And endure what can't be mended.
May I be fo watchful still

O'er my humours and my paffion, As to fpeak and do no ill,

Though it should be all the fashion.

Wicked fafhions lead to hell;

Ne'er may I be found complying; But in life behave fo well,

Not to be afraid of dying.

$95. A Summer Evening. WATTS.

HOW fine has the day been, how bright was

the fun,

How lovely and joyful the courfe that he run, Though he rofe in a mist when his race he begun, And there follow'd fome droppings of rain! But now the fair traveller's come to the weft, His rays are all gold, and his beauties are beft; He paints the fky gay as he finks to his rest,

And foretels a bright rifing again.

Juft fuch is the Christian: his course he begins, Like the fun in a mift,when he mourns for his fins, And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines, And travels his heavenly way:

But, when he comes nearer to finish his race, Like a fine fetting fun, he looks richer in grace, And gives a fure hope at the end of his days Of rifing in brighter array!

$96. A Cradle Hymn. WATTS. HUSH! my dear, lie ftill and flumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heav'nly blettings, without number, Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
Houfe and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care or payment,

All thy wants are well fupplied.
How much better thou'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be;
When from heaven he defcended,
And became a child like thee!
Soft and cafy is thy cradle,
Coarfe and hard thy Saviour lay;
When his birth-place was a ftable,
And his fofteft bed was hay.
Bleffed babe! what glorious features
Spotlefs fair, divinely bright!
Muft he dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the fight?
Was there nothing but a manger
Curfed finners could afford,
To receive the heav'nly ftranger?

Did they thus affront their Lord?
Soft, my child; I did not chide thee,

Though my fong might found too hard; * mother 'Tis thy nurfe that fits beside thee, And her arms fhall be thy guard. Yet to read the shameful story,

How the Jews abus'd their King, How they ferv'd the Lord of glory, Makes me angry while I fing.

See the kinder fhepherds round him,
Telling wonders from the sky!
Where they fought him, there they found him,
With his Virgin mother by.
See the lovely babe a-dreffing.
Lovely Infant, how he finil'd!
When he wept, the Mother's bleffing
Sooth'd and hufh'd the holy child.
Lo, he flumbers in his manger,

Where the horned oxen fed:
Peace, my darling, here's no danger,
Here's no ox a-near thy bed.
'Twas to fave thee, child, from dying,
Save my dear from burning flame,
Bitter groans, and endless crying,

That thy bleft Redeemer came.
May't thou live to know and fear him,

Truft and love him all thy days;
Then go dwell for ever near him,"
See his face, and fing his praife!

I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I muft defire;
Not a mother's fondeft wifhes
Can to greater joys afpire!

$97. The Nunc Dimittis. MERRICK. "TIS enough-the hour is come:

Now within the filent temb

Let

Let this mortal frame decay, Mingled with its kindred clay; Since thy mercies, oft of old By thy chofen feers foretold, Faithful now and stedfaft prove, God of truth, and God of love! Since at length my aged eye Sees the day-fpring from on high! Son of righteoufncis, to thee, Lo! the nations bow the knee; And the realms of diftant kings Own the healing of thy wings. Those whom death had overfpread With his dark and dreary fhade, Lift their eyes, and from afar Hail the light of Jacob's Star; Waiting till the promis'd ray Turn their darkness into day. See the beams, intenfely fhed, Shine o'er Sion's favour'd head! "Never may they hence remove, God of truth, and God of love!

§98. The Benedicite paraphrafed. MERRICK. YE works of God, on him alone,

In earth his footstool, heav'n his throne,
Be all your praife bestow'd;
Whofe hand the beauteous fabric made,
Whofe eye the finish'd work furvey`d,
And faw that all was good.
Ye angels, that with loud acclaim
Admiring view'd the new-born frame,

And hail'd th' Eternal King,
Again proclaim your Maker's praise;
Again your thankful voices raife,

And touch the tuneful string.
Praife him, ye bleft thercal plains,
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 praife.. Celestial orb! whose pow'rful ray Opes the glad eyelids of the day,

Whofe influence all things own; Praife him, whofe courts effulgent fhine With light as far excelling thine,

As thine the paler moon.
Ye glitt'ring planets of the sky,
Whofe lamps the abfent fun fupply,
With him the fong purfue;
And let himself fubmittive own,
He borrows from a brighter Sun
The light he leads 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 fweep
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 tempeft on its way,
Or bids the flaming deluge stray,
And gives it strength to roar.
Ye fummer's heat, and winter's cold,
By turns in long fucceffion roll'd,

The drooping world to cheer,
Praise him who gave the fun and moon
To lead the various feafons on,

And guide the circling year.
Ye frofts, that bind the wat'ry plain,
Ye filent fhow'rs of fleecy rain,

Pursue the heav'nly theme;
Praife him who fheds the driving fnow,
Forbids the harden'd waves to flow,

And stops the rapid stream.

Ye days and nights, that fwiftly borne
From morn to eve, from eve to morn,
Alternate glide away,

Praife him, whofe never-varying light,
Abfent, adds horror to the night,

But, prefent, gives the day.

Light, from whofe rays all beauty fprings;
Darknets, whole wide-expanded wings
Involve the dufky globe;

Praife him who, when the heav'ns he spread,
Darkness his thick pavilion made,

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;
Praife him, ye clouds that wand'ring stray,
Or, fix'd by him, in clote array
Surround his awful fhrine.

Exalt, O carth! thy Heav'nly King,
Who bids the plants that form the fpring
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 fied,
When Jordan fought his fountain-head,
And own'd th' approaching God.