Oh, those words, my soul sustaining,
Would renew my languid powers;
Give my daylight, now fast waning,
Brighter tints than morning hours.

But can such a kind indulgence
Be on one like me bestowed?
Such a ray from thine effulgence
Penetrate my soul's abode?

Lord, if not, with much endurance
I will wait thy holy will;
While denied this bright assurance,
Thank my God for twilight still.

No, my Father, thou wilt never
Turn away the contrite soul;
Promises, the same for ever,

All my doubts and fears control.

Filial love, I trust, hath bound me,

Bound my heart and soul to thee;
Hence, though other doubts confound me,
I'll not doubt thy love to me.

OLD AGE.

The last of the four hundred and sixty-seven manuscript hymns, and dated Oct. 3, 1858.

YOUTH and its vernal bloom have fled,

Summer and autumn gone;

And yet, O God, thy love may cheer,

When wintry days come on.

Sun of the soul, beneath thy beams

All things may bloom within;

And ripening fruits in frosty age
May beautify the scene.

Thou, who hast fed me all my life,
Help me to trust thee still;
And all the hopes, by thee inspired,
Most graciously fulfil.

Then will I travel on my way,

Long though my journey be,
Nor tire beneath the weight of years
While walking, Lord, with thee.

JAMES FLINT.

(1779-1855.)

REV. JAMES FLINT, D.D., was born in Reading, Mass., Dec. 10, 1779. His early years were passed on his father's farm, where he divided his time between manual labor and preparatory studies. He began with the classics under the direction of the parish minister, Rev. Eliab Stone. He graduated at Harvard College in 1802; was afterward Preceptor of the Academy in Andover, and subsequently taught school in Dedham, where he studied for the ministry with Rev. Dr. Bates; was ordained pastor of the church in East Bridgewater, Oct. 29, 1806; and for many years gave private instruction to young men who wished to prepare themselves for the regular course at Cambridge. In April, 1821, he resigned his charge at East Bridgewater, and accepted a call to the East Church, Salem, of which he was installed as the pastor on the 19th of the following September. After a ministry here of thirty years, he requested his parish, in view of his advanced age, to grant him the aid of a colleague, and himself designated for the office Rev. Dexter Clapp, who accepted the trust, and entered upon his labors Dec. 17, 1851. Dr. Flint died, March 4, 1855. His now sainted associate and successor, in a sermon which he preached soon afterward, spoke of "the quick and active intellect," of "the lively and exuberant fancy," and of "the deep religious sentiment" of his departed friend and counsellor, and quoted from a letter of a classmate of the latter, Ex-Governor Levi Lincoln, who wrote: "Dr. Flint's genial character, his warm affections, his pure classic taste, the high tone of his moral sentiments, and his literary aspirations and attainments, won the confidence and esteem of all, and made him the object of special regard to those with whom he was most intimate. Well and faithfully has he redeemed all the pledges of his early manhood, by distinguished usefulness in a Christian life, by the cultivation of a gifted mind, and the truest devotion of his rare endowments to the best interests of his fellow-men."

Dr. Flint received his degree of D.D., in 1825, from Harvard College. Besides contributing to some of the principal journals of the day.

and publishing some translations from Chateaubriand, he delivered numerous occasional discourses, and wrote many hymns and odes for public celebrations or anniversary services. In 1843 he published “A Collection of Hymns for the Christian Church and Home," for the use of his own society in Salem. It took at once the place of a smaller one prepared long before by his distinguished predecessor, Rev. William Bentley, D.D. The new Collection retained many of the hymns that were in the old, and included many others drawn from various sources. Ten or twelve of these were written by Dr. Flint himself, and some of them are as follows:

GOD WITH THE TRUE WORSHIPPER EVERY

WHERE.

IN costly fane, the pride of art,

Or bowed in lowliest cell,
Lord, in the pure and grateful heart
Thou dost delight to dwell.

Thy servants find thee everywhere,
Alone, by night or day;
The world is all a house of prayer
To souls that love to pray.

Yet, with intenser, brighter flame,
Devotion's fire will blaze,
When many meet in Jesus' name
To join in prayer and praise.

To thee, the only God, most wise,
In heaven and earth revered,
Our mingled vows shall duly rise,
Our Sabbath hymns be heard.

Be here our soul's secure retreat,
Our ark on life's chafed sea;
Unheard the storm without shall beat,
While we commune with thee.

Here, with a Father's gracious eye,
Behold the suppliant throng,

Oft as they breathe the imploring sigh,
Or wake the choral song.

THE BEATITUDES.

HAPPY the unrepining poor :

For them the heavenly rest is sure, Whose patient minds, in every ill, Submissive meet their Maker's will.

Happy the contrite, who lament
Their wasted hours, in sin misspent:
Reclaimed from sin, they shall obtain
Eternal joys for transient pain.
Happy the meek, by wisdom taught
To check each proud, resentful thought:
For them earth spreads the feast of life,
Unmixed with bitterness and strife.

Happy the souls that grow in grace,
Hunger and thirst for righteousness :
For them a full and rich supply
Shall be prepared in worlds on high.
Happy the men who mercy show
To all that need, or friend or foe:
To them like mercy shall be shown,
When God's just sentence all shall own.

Happy the pure in heart: for they,
Still holding on in virtue's way,

When faith and hope are changed to sight,
Shall see their God in cloudless light.

Happy the men of peaceful life,

Who win to peace the sons of strife:
They shall be called the sons of God,
The heirs of his serene abode.

And happy those who take the cross,
For truth encounter pain and loss,
And suffer shame for Christ, their Lord:
For great in heaven is their reward.

EVENING HYMN.

FATHER, thy mercies never fail ;

Again the evening shades prevail, And soothed I hear the still, small voice That bids me in thy care rejoice.

Beneath thy sun's all-cheering ray

I've plied my task another day;

And thrice my strength refreshed hath been With food, and converse sweet between.

Thy works, all beautiful and good,
I've scanned and partly understood;
Clothed in their livery of light,

All speak thy wisdom, love, and might.

When darkness veils the earth and skies,
New worlds and wonders o'er me rise,
That tell, in words of flame from far,
How vast, how bright thy glories are.

Kept by thine all-sustaining power,
I welcome now the solemn hour
That comes my weary lids to close,
And lay me down to sweet repose.

Wrapt in the soft embrace of sleep,
Let angel-guards their vigils keep
About my bed, and be my rest
With holy dreams and visions blest.

While my tired frame in mimic death
Lies motionless, save pulse and breath,
Let my free spirit heavenward fly,
And, without dying, learn to die.