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GREAT Lord of all things! Power Divine !
Breathe, on this erring heart of mine,
Thy grace serene and pure:
Defend my frail, my erring youth,
And teach me this important truth,
The humble are secure.

Teach me to bless my lowly lot,
Confined to this paternal cot,

Remote from regal state;

Content to court the cooling glade,
Inhale the breeze, enjoy the shade,
And love my humble fate.

No anxious vigils, here I keep,
No dreams of gold disturb my sleep,
Nor lead my heart astray;
Nor blasting envy's tainted gale
Pollutes the pleasure of the vale,
To vex my harmless day.

Yon tower which rears its head so high
And bids defiance to the sky,

Invites the hostile winds :
Yon branching oak, extending wide,
Provokes destruction by its pride,
And courts the fall it finds.

Then let me shun the ambitious deed,
And all the dangerous paths which lead
To honours falsely won:
Lord, in thy sure protection blest,
Submissive will I ever rest,

And may thy will be done!



A MANTLE of leaves had enshrouded the rose,
And slumber had hidden the tints of the bower,
When, lo! in the midst of this dewy repose,

As I wandered, I came to a night-blowing flower.

All others, their robes and their odours forsaking,
Undistinguished were sleeping in slumber profound;
But this, this alone in its beauty was waking,
And breathing its soul-filling sweetness around.

Twas a glorious flower! its corolla of white,
As pearls of Arabia, 'mid jewels of gold,

And lonely and fair, through the shades of the night,
It beam'd with a softness I loved to behold.

And methought, as I look'd, what an emblem is this,
Thus blooming afar from the land of its birth,
Of Him whose own land is a region of bliss,

Though he grew as a plant in this garden of earth.

'Twas thus, while the world all around him was dim, That he shone with love's purest and loveliest ray; 'Twas thus, in the garden so honour'd by him,

That night, through his fragrance, was richer than day.

Like the flowers, his disciples at midnight were sleeping, And deep were their slumbers, unconscious of care, While he, in the blood of his agony weeping,

To his Father was breathing the sweetness of prayer.

J. A. W.


THEY err, who tell us Love can die,-
With life all other passions fly;
All others are but vanity.

In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They finish where they have their birth,
But love is indestructible;

Its holy flame for ever burneth,

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.

Too oft on earth a troubled guest,

At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,

Then hath in heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of Love is there.



I'm not too young for God to see,

He knows my name and nature too ;
And all day long he looks at me,

And sees my actions through and through.

He listens to the words I say,

And knows the thoughts I have within;
And whether I'm at work or play,
He's sure to see me if I sin.

Oh! how could children tell a lie,
Or cheat in play, or steal, or fight,
If they remembered God was nigh,
And had them always in his sight.

Then when I wish to do amiss,
However pleasant it may be,
I'll always try to think of this,
I'm not too young for God to see.


GREAT GOD! and wilt thou condescend,
To be my Father and my Friend;
I, a poor child, and Thou so high,
The Lord of earth, and air, and sky.

Art Thou my Father?-Canst thou bear
To hear my poor imperfect prayer?
Or wilt thou listen to the praise

That such a little one can raise ?

Art Thou my Father?-Let me be
A meek obedient child to Thee,
And try in word, and deed, and thought,
To serve and please Thee as I ought.

Art Thou my Father?-I'll depend
Upon the care of such a Friend,
And only wish to do and be,
Whatever seemeth good to Thee!

Art Thou my Father ?—Then at last,
When all my days on earth are past,
Send down and take me in thy love,
To be thy better child above.


My Father's Name-my Father's Name,

How hallowed and how dear;

That sound, it fell like melody

Upon my listening ear.

What though a stranger spoke his praise,

So exquisite it came,—

At once I loved him as a Friend,
It was my Father's Name.

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