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The humble man heaves up his head. This stream doth water paradise,
Like some rich vale

It makes the angels sing,
Whose fruits ne'er faile,

One cordial drop revives my heart,
With flowers, with corne, and vines o'er- Hence all my joys do spring.

spread ;
Nor doth complaine

Such joys as are unspeakable,
O'erflowed by an ill-season'd raine,

And full of glory too ;
Or battered by a storme of haile.

Such hidden manna, hidden pearls,

As worldlings do not know :
Like a tall ship with treasure fraught, Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,
He, the seas cleere

From fancy 'tis conceald,
Doth quiet steere :

What thou Lord hast laid up for thine, But when they are to a tempest wrought ;

And hast to me reveald.
More gallantly

He spreads his saile, and doth mure high I see thy face, I hear thy voice,
By swelling of the waves appeare.

I taste thy sweetest love;

My soul doth leap; but 0, for wings, For the Almighty joyes to force

The wings of Noah's dove !
The glorious tide

Then should I fee far hence away,
Of human pride

Leaving this world of sin :
To the lowest ebbe, that o'er his course

Then should my Lord put forth his hand, (Which rudely bore

And kindly take me in.
Down what opposed it heretofore)
His feeblest enemies may stride.

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"Tis joy e'en here! a budding flower, Struggling with shows, and storm and

shower, And waits the moment to expand, Transplanted to its native land !



FIERCE passions discompose the mind,
As tempests vex the sea ;
But calm content and peace we find,
When, Lord, we turn to thee.

In vain by reason and by rule,
We try to bend the will;
For none but in the Saviour's school
Can learn the heavenly skill.

He is the freeman whom the truth makes

free, And all are slaves beside; there's not a chain, That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm, Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Sampson bis green

withs. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and though poor, perhaps com

par'd With those whose mansions glitter in bis

sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers : His t'enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial gratitude inspir'd, Can lift to heav'n an unpresumptuvus eye, And smiling say— My Father made them

all !” Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of int'rest his, Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted

mind, With worthy thoughts of that anwearied

love, That plann'd and built, and still upholds a

world, So cloth'd with beauty for rebellious man

Since at his feet my soul bas sat, His gracious words to hear, Contented with my present state, I cast on him my care.

“Art thou a sinner, soul ?” he said ; “ Then how canst thou complain? How light thy troubles here, if weigh'd With everlasting pain!

If thou of murm'ring would'st be cur'd,
Compare thy griefs with mine;
Thiuk what my love, for thee endur'd,
And thou wilt not repine.


'Tis I appoint thy daily lot,
And I do all things well;
Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot,
And rise with me to dwell.

In life my grace shall strength supply,
Proportion'd to thy day ;
At death thou still sbalt find me nigb,
To wipe thy tears away.”

“ He is the freeman whom the truth makes

free,” Wbo first of all, the bands of Satan breaks; Who breaks the bands of sin; and for his

soul, In spite of fools, consulteth seriously ; In spite of fashion, perseveres in good ; In spite of wealth or poverty, upright; Who does as reason, not as fancy bids; Who hears temptation sing, and yet turns

not Aside; sees sin bedeck her flowery bed, And yet will not go up; feels at his heart

Thus I, who once my wretched days
In vain repining spent,
Tauglit in my Saviour's school of grace,
Have learn'd to be content.

The sword unsheathed, yet will not sell the Shall echo through the realms above,

When time shall be no more.
Who having power, bas not the will to hurt;
Who feels asham'd to be, or have a slave ;
Whom nought makes blush but sin, fears
nought but God;

Who, finally, in strong integrity
Of soul, midst want, or riches, or disgrace,

Uplifted, calmly sat, and heard the waves

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, Of stormy folly breaking at his feet,

My staffe of faith to walk upon, Now shrill with praise, now hoarse with foul My scrip of joye, (immortal diet!) reproach,

My bottle of salvation, And both despised sincerely ; seeking this

My gown of glory, hope's true gage; Alone, The approbation of his God,

--And thus I take my pilgrimage. Which still with conscience witnessed to his peace.

Blood must be my body's balmer, This, this is freedom, such as angels use,

While my soul, like peaceful palmer, And kindred to the liberty of God.

Travelleth tow'rds the land of heaven;
Other balm will not be given.

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