He shone in burning majesty revealed,)
Nathless conspicuous in the linnet's throat
Is his unbounded goodness. Thee her maker,
Thee her preserver, chants she in her song;
While all the emulative vocal tribe
The grateful lesson learn. No other voice
Is heard, no other sound-for in attention
Buried, even babbling echo holds her peace.
Now from the plains where the unbounded
prospect

Gives liberty her utmost scope to range,
Turn we to yon inclosures, where appears
Chequered variety in all her forms

Which the vague mind attract, and still suspend
With sweet perplexity. What are yon towers,
The work of labouring men and clumsy art,
Seen with the ringdove's nest? On that tall beech
Her pensile house the feathered artist builds,
The rocking winds molest her not; for see,
With such due poise the wondrous fabric's hung,
That, like the compass in the bark, it keeps
True to itself, and stedfast e'en in storms.
Thou idiot, that asserts there is no God,
View and be dumb for ever.

Go, bid Vitruvius or Palladio build
The bee his mansion, or the ant her cave.
Go call Correggio, or let Titian come

To paint the hawthorn's bloom, or teach the

cherry

To blush with just vermilion. Hence, away!
Hence, ye profane! for God himself is here.
Vain were the attempt, and impious, to trace

Through all his works th' Artificer Divine.
And though nor shining sun nor twinkling star
Bedecked the crimson curtains of the sky;
Though neither vegetable, beast, nor bird,
Were extant on the surface of the ball,

Nor lurking gem beneath; though the great sea
Slept in profound stagnation, and the air
Had left no thunder to pronounce its Maker;
Yet man, at home within himself, might find
The Deity immense, and in that frame,
So fearfully, so wonderfully made,
See and adore his providence and power.

I see and I adore;-O God, most bounteous!
Oh! infinite of goodness and of glory,

The knee that Thou hast shaped shall bend to
Thee!

The tongue which Thou hast tuned shall chant thy praise!

And thine own image, the immortal soul,

Shall consecrate herself to Thee for ever.

CHRISTOPHER SMART.

that I may Keep Thy Word. JESUS, by whose grace I live,

From the fear of evil kept,

Thou hast lengthened my reprieve,
Held in being while I slept;
With the day my heart renew,
Let me wake Thy will to do.

Since the last revolving dawn
Scattered the nocturnal cloud,
O how many souls have gone,
Unprepared to meet their God!
Yet Thou dost prolong my breath,
Nor hast sealed my eyes in death!
O that I may keep Thy word,
Taught by Thee to watch and pray!
To Thy service, dearest Lord,
Sanctify the present day:
Swift its fleeting moments haste;
Doomed, perhaps, to be my last!
Crucified to all below,

Earth shall never be my care;
Wealth and honour I forego,

This my only wish and prayer ;—
Thine in life and death to be,

Now, and to eternity!

TOPLADY.

Oh, come, let us go to the Valley of Peace!

OH, come, let us go to the Valley of Peace!

There earth's weary cares to perplex us shall

cease;

We will stray through its solemn and far-spreading shades,

Till twilight's last ray from each green hillock fades.

There slumber the friends whom we long must regret

The forms whose mild beauty we can not forget; We will seek the low mounds where so softly they sleep,

And will sit down and muse on the idols we weep : But we will not repine that they're hid from our

eyes,

For we know they still live in a home in the skies; But we'll pray that, when life's weary journey

shall cease,

We may slumber with them in the Valley of Peace!

Oh, sad were our path through this valley of tears, If, when weary and wasted with toil and with years,

No home were prepared where the pilgrim might lay

Mortality's cumbering vestments away!

But sadder, and deeper, and darker the gloom, That would close o'er our way as we speed to the tomb,

If Faith pointed not to that heavenly goal, Where the Sun of eternity beams on the soul! Oh, who, mid the sorrows and changes of time, E'er dreamed of that holier, that happier clime, But yearned for the hour of the spirit's releaseFor a pillow of rest in the Valley of Peace!

Oh, come, thou pale mourner, whose sorrowing

gaze

Seems fixed on the shadows of long-vanished days,

Sad, sad is thy tale of bereavement and wo,
And thy spirit is weary of life's garish show!
Come here: I will shew thee a haven of rest,
Where sorrow no longer invades the calm breast;
Where the spirit throws off its dull mantle of care,
And the robe is ne'er folded o'er secret despair!
Yet the dwelling is lonely, and silent, and cold,
And the soul may shrink back as its portals
unfold;

But a bright Star has dawned through the shades of the east,

That will light up with beauty the Valley of Peace!

Thou frail child of error! come hither and say, Has the world yet a charm that can lure thee to stay?

Ah, no! in thine aspect are anguish and wo,

And deep shame has written its name on thy brow. Poor outcast! too long hast thou wandered forlorn, In a path where thy feet are all gored with the thorn;

Where thy breast by the fang of the serpent is stung,

And scorn on thy head by a cold world is flung! Come here, and find rest from thy guilt and thy tears,

And a sleep sweet as that of thine innocent years; We will spread thee a couch where thy woes

shall all cease:

Oh, come and lie down in the Valley of Peace! The grave, ah, the grave! 'tis a mighty stronghold, The weak, the oppressed, all are safe in its fold: