Imatges de pàgina
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Meek Lamb of God! on Thee,
'Mid the hot desert, where the pilgrim pines,
'Midst wintry gloom, and winds that wail,
Mighty is the power that gives,

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New Heavens !—for the stars grow pale, .
Night ! floating to thy cloudy throne,
No more, no more of the cares of time!
No night shall be in heaven-no gathering gloom,
Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Now spring returns, but not to me returns,

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O! blest art thou whose steps may rove,
O God of Abraham ! by whose hand,
O God of nature and of grace,
O happy is the man who hears,
O how wondrous is the story,
O in the dark and stormy night,
O life! O death! O world! O time!
O Lord, another day is flown, .
O Lord, my God! I come to Thee,
O Lord, send down the heavenly rain,
O Saviour ! whose mercy, severe in its kindness,
O Thou the first, the greatest Friend,
0 Thou! who art the Shepherd of faithful Jacob's race,
O Thou ! who dryest the mourner's tear,
O well he named thee, prophet wise, .
O wondrous morn! when o'er the earth,
O worship the King, all glorious above !
Oft as the daylight hours were gone,
Oh blest were the accents of early creation, .
Oh for that purity of heart,
Oh, my brother, spirit weary,
Oh! spare the rod,
Oh! weep not for the joys that fade,
Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved, .
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?

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Talk not of temples, there is one,
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Tell me, O thou captive daughter,
That man no guard or weapon needs,
The air of death breathes through our souls,
The Assyrian came down, like a wolf on the fold,
The birds are twittering in the early dawn, .
The Bethel flag we raise,
The chariot ! the chariot ! its wheels roll on fire,
The cold wind strips the yellow leaf,
The day of wrath! that dreadful day,
The falling leaf! it speaks to me,
The God of nature and of grace,
The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
The spacious firmament on high,

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The summer sky, so blue and clear,

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The waves, the winds of Circumstance,

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There is a book, who runs may read,

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There is a calm for those who weep, .

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There is a concert in the trees,

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There is a friend, a secret friend,

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There is a happy land,

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There is a morning-star, my soul, .

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There is a thought can lift the soul,

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There is light on the hills, and the valley is past,

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There's music in the morning air,

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These eyes that were half-closed in death,

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They sin who tell us love can die,

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This is not my place of resting,

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Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee, 88
Thou art my hiding-place, O Lord,

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Thou art, O God! the life and light, .

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Thou city of the Lord ! whose name,
Thou earth ! c'er which the curse of sin,

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Though long the wanderer may depart, .

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Thongh this wild brain is aching,

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Thy cross, O Lord, the holy sign,

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'Tis midnight, 'tis midnight, o'er Egypt's dark sky,. 181
'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more,

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To Jesus, the crown of my hope,

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To the everlasting mountains I lift my weary eyes, 276
To Thee, my God! to Thee I bring,

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Tread softly, bow the head,

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Truth is eternal as its source, .

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Up and away, like the dew of the morning, .

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Vital spark of heavenly flame,

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We find a glory in the flowers,
Weak and irresolute is man,
Weary one, wait! the dawn is approaching,

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Weep not for thy loved one, whose form lies at rest, 243
What are these ethereal strains,

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What is the Lord ? survey the world,

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What's this vain world to me?

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What strains of compassion are heard,

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What various hindrances we meet,

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When all thy mercies, O my God,

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When gathering clouds around I view,

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When in the hour of lonely woe,

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When Israel of the Lord beloved,

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When Jordan hushed his waters still,

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When marshalled on the mighty plain,

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When my soul is full of anguish,

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When our heads are bowed with woe,

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When shall we meet again?

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When through the torn sail the wild tempest is streaming, 88
Whene'er an angry word is said,

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Where art Thou !

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Where high the heavenly temple stands,

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Where is the tree the prophet threw,

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Where is this infant ? it is gone,

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Where the faded flower shall freshen,

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Where thou hast touched, O wondrous death!

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While angels bend before thee,

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While to several paths dividing,

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Why does the day, whose date is brief,

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Why should I murmur or repine,

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Work! thy mission is not slumber,

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Would you be young again? .

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Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell,
Ye ransomed saints ! what tongue can tell,

The Sacred Minstrel.

JOSEPH ADDISON.
A NE of the most celebrated of British writers,

Joseph Addison was born at Milston, Wilt-
shire, in 1672. He studied at Oxford,
where he was distinguished for his classical

attainments. By composing elegant verses, he early gained some powerful patrons. In 1709 he became Private Secretary to the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, an appointment which, united to another office, yielded him a salary of £600, He now published, along with Sir Richard Steele, the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian, periodicals which exercised a salutary influence on the manners of the period, and which still retain their popularity. In 1716, Addison espoused the Dowager Countess of Warwick, a union not productive of happiness. He was subsequently appointed Secretary of State for Ireland, but soon retired on an allowance of £1500 a year. He died at Holland House, Kensington, in June 1719. Addison was a man of earnest and unpretending piety; his writings, both in prose and verse, breathe the spirit of devotion. His reputation as a powerful and elegant essayist has eclipsed his fame as a poet; but his sacred lyrics have been inserted in every collection, and will continue to be read with interest, while the English language is understood.

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