RETIREMENT.

FAR from the world, O Lord, I flee,
From strife and tumult far;
From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.

The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree;
And seem by thy sweet bounty made
For those who follow Thee.

There, if thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,
Oh! with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God.

There, like the nightingale, she pours
Her solitary lays;

Nor asks a witness of her song,
Nor thirsts for human praise.

Author and Guardian of my life,
Sweet source of light divine,
And (all harmonious names in one,)
My Saviour, Thou art mine!

What thanks I owe Thee, and what love, A boundless, endless store,

Shall echo through the realms above,

When time shall be no more.

JOHN LOGAN.

JOHN LOGAN was born at Soutra, in Mid Lothian, in 1748. He was bred to the Scottish Church, and became one of the ministers of Leith. Disagreeing, however, with his congregation, he came to London, and supported himself by his pen. He died there in December, 1788. Logan contributed many of the finest paraphrases to the Collection used in the Scottish Church. His poetry discovers great taste, and delicacy of sentiment. and a fervent imagination, and is written with much elegance.

THE COMPLAINT

O F NATURE.

JOB XIV.

FEW are thy days and full of wo,
O man, of woman born!
Thy doom is written, "Dust thou art,
And shalt to dust return."

Determined are the days that fly
Successive o'er thy head;

The numbered hour is on the wing,
That lays thee with the dead.

Alas! the little day of life

Is shorter than a span;

Yet black with thousand hidden ills
To miserable man.

Gay is thy morning; flattering hope
Thy sprightly step attends;
But soon the tempest howls behind,
And the dark night descends.

Before its splendid hour the cloud

Comes o'er the beam of light;

A pilgrim in a weary land,

Man tarries but a night.

Behold! sad emblems of thy state,
The flowers that paint the field;
Or trees that crown the mountain's brow,
And boughs and blossoms yield.

When chill the blast of winter blows,
Away the summer flies;

The flowers resign their sunny robes,
And all their beauty dies.

Nipped by the year, the forest fades;
And, shaking to the wind.

The leaves toss to and fro, and streak
The wilderness behind.

The winter past, reviving flowers
Anew shall paint the plain :

The woods shall hear the voice of spring,
And flourish green again:

But man departs this earthly scene,
Ah! never to return;

No second spring shall e'er revive
The ashes of the urn.

The inexorable gates of death,

What hand can e'er unfold?

Who from the cerements of the tomb
Can raise the human mould?

The mighty flood that rolls along
Its torrents to the main,

The waters lost, can ne'er recall
From that abyss again.

The days, the years, the ages, dark
Descending down to night,

Can never, never be redeemed

Back to the gates of light.

"So man departs the living scene
To night's perpetual gloom;
The voice of morning ne'er shall break
The slumbers of the tomb.

"Where are our fathers? whither gone The mighty men of old?

The patriarchs, prophets, priests, and kings, In sacred books enrolled?

"Gone to the resting-place of man,
The everlasting home,
Where ages past have gone before,
Where future ages come."

Thus Nature poured the wail of wo,
And urged her earnest cry;

Her voice in agony extreme

Ascended to the sky.

The Almighty heard: then from his throne.

In majesty He rose ;

And from the heaven that opened wide,
His voice in mercy flows:

"When mortal man resigns his breath,
And falls a clod of clay,

The soul, immortal, wings its flight
To never-setting day.

"Prepared of old for wicked men,
The bed of torment lies;
The just shall enter into bliss,

Immortal in the skies."

THE

PRAYER OF JACOB.

O GOD of Bethel! 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.

Oh! spread thy covering wings around,
Till all our wanderings cease,
And at our father's loved abode,
Our souls arrive in peace!

Such blessings from thy gracious hand
Our humble prayers implore;
And Thou shalt be our chosen God,

And portion evermore.