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nonconformity. It has been the distinguishing and almost unique honour of Dr. Watts, that, with powers approved as equal to the discussion of any subject within the grasp of the intellect of man, he descended to homely and familiar poems for the instruction and edification of the young. His principal productions are his "Logic," and a supplementary treatise on The Improvement of the Mind," "Philosophical Essays," "Psalms, Hymns, and Divine Songs." With the three last, or specimens of them, every one is familiar. From his "Hora Lyricæ, in three books," is extracted an ode on "The Day of Judgment," which may be comparatively novel. The “Horæ Lyrica” is divided into poems (Book I.), Sacred to Devotion and Piety; (II.) Sacred to Virtue, Honour, and Friendship; and (III.) Sacred to the Memory of the Dead.


When the fierce north-wind with his airy forces
Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury;

And the red lightning, with a storm of hail, comes
Rushing amain down;

How the poor sailors stand amazed and tremble,
While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet,
Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters,

Quick to devour them.

Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder,
(If things eternal may be like those earthly),
Such the dire terror, when the great archangel
Shakes the creation;

Tears the strong pillars of the vault of heaven;
Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes;
See the graves open, and the bones arising-
Flames all around them!

Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches!
Lively-bright horror and amazing anguish

Stare through their eyelids, while the living worm lies
Gnawing within them.

Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heartstrings,

And the smart twinges, when the eyes behold the
Lofty Judge, frowning, and a flood of vengeance
Rolling afore Him.

Stop here, my fancy; (all away, ye horrid
Doleful ideas :) come, arise to Jesus!

How He sits, Godlike! and the saints around Him
Throned, yet adoring!

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may I sit there, when He comes triumphant, Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory! While our hosannahs all along the passage, Shout the Redeemer.


When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ, my God;
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to his blood.

See from his head, his hands, his feet,
Scrrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

His dying crimson, like a robe,
Spreads o'er his body on the tree;
Then am I dead to all the globe,
And all the globe is dead to me.

Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,

Demands my soul, my life, my all.


My God, the spring of all my joys,
The life of my delights,

The glory of my brightest days,
And comfort of my nights:

In darkest shades if He appear,
My dawning is begun;

He is my soul's sweet morning-star,
And He my rising sun.

The opening heavens around me shine
With beams of sacred bliss,

While Jesus shows his heart is mine,
And whispers, I am his.

My soul would leave this heavy clay
At that transporting word,
Run up with joy the shining way
T' embrace my dearest Lord.

Fearless of hell and ghastly death,
I'd break through every foe:
The wings of love, and arms of faith,
Should bear me conqueror through.




Blest be the Father, and his love,

To whose celestial source we owe
Rivers of endless joy above,
And rills of comfort here below.

Glory to Thee, great Son of God,
From whose dear wounded body rolls
A precious stream of vital blood,
Pardon and life for dying souls.

We give Thee, sacred Spirit, praise,
Who in our hearts of sin and woe
Makes living springs of grace arise,
And into boundless glory flow.

Thus God the Father, God the Son,
And God the Spirit, we adore;
That sea of life and love unknown,
Without a bottom or a shore.

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JAMES THOMSON was born September 7th, 1700, at Ednam, in Roxburghshire, of which parish his father was minister. After receiving his preparatory education at the school of Jedburgh, he studied at the University of Edinburgh, with the intention of fitting himself for the clerical profession. Abandoning this design, he repaired, in 1725, to London, which seemed to offer the only stage on which he could appear with advantage in his elected character of poet. Here he published successively those poems, "Winter," "Summer," Spring," and "Autumn," called collectively the "Seasons," and completed in 1730, which have established his reputation as the great prophet of Nature, and won for him that inore pregnant and expressive title of her "Druid." In

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1727, Thomson produced the tragedy of "Sophonisba," which fell flat upon the ears of an audience prepared to receive it enthusiastically. During a course of travel which he undertook with the eldest son of Chancellor Talbot, he collected materials for a poem in five books, which he published, after his return, under the title of "Liberty." In 1738, he produced his tragedy of “Agamemnon," and in 1745, "Tancred and Sigismunda," the best and most successful of all his tragedies. His "Castle of Indolence," published the same year, is a poem displaying much luxuriance of imagery and melody of rhythm, but abounding in archaic forms and phraseology. Thomson died in 1748, and was buried at Richmond. It was said of him by his friend and patron, Lord Lyttelton, that he had written

"No line which, dying, he could wish to blot ;"

Than this, purer and more enviable praise is inconceivable. The hymn quoted below is the grand concluding doxology of the seasons in their revolution.


These, as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love.
Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm;
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;
And every sense and every heart is joy.

Then comes thy glory in the Summer months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy Sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year:
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks;
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In Winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms

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