Thrice happy house, that has receipt
For this so lofty form, so straight,
So polished, perfect, round, and even,
As it slid moulded off from heaven.

Not swelling like the ocean proud,
But stooping gently as a cloud;
As smooth as oil poured forth, and calm
As showers, and sweet as drops of balm.
Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a flood
Where it may run to any good;
And where it stays, it there becomes
A nest of odorous spice and

gums.

In action, winged as the wind,
In rest, like spirits left behind
Upon a bank, or field of flowers,
Begotten by that wind and showers.

In thee, fair mansion, let it rest,
Yet know with what thou art possessed;
Thou entertaining in thy breast

But such a mind, makest God thy guest.

BEN JONSON.

Prune thou thy Words.

RUNE thou thy words, the thoughts control
That o'er thee swell and throng;

They will condense within thy soul,

And change to purpose strong.

But he, who lets his feelings run

In soft luxurious flow,

Shrinks when hard service must be done,
And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favour bears,
Where hearts and wills are weighed,
Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,
Which bloom their hour and fade.

ANON.

Pass we Blithely, then, the Time.

LO, the lilies of the field,

How their leaves instruction yield!

Hark to Nature's lesson given

By the blessed birds of heaven!

Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy:

"Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow:
God provideth for the morrow!

66

'Say, with richer crimson glows The kingly mantle than the rose ?

Say, have kings more wholesome fare

Than we, poor

citizens of air?

Barns nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol merrily:

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow;

God provideth for the morrow!

“One there lives, whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny;

One there lives, who, Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers lest they fall;
Pass we blithely, then, the time,
Fearless of the snare and lime,

Free from doubt and faithless sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow!"

BISHOP HEBER.

Prayer for Resignation.

GOOD and great God! can I not think of thee,

But it must straight my melancholy be?

Is it interpreted in me disease,

That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease?
O be thou witness, that the reins dost know,
And hearts of all, if I be sad for show;
And judge me after, if I dare pretend
To aught but grace, or aim at other end.
As thou art all, so be thou all to me,
First, midst, and last, converted One and Three!
My faith, my hope, my love; and in this state,
My Judge, my Witness, and my Advocate,
Where have I been this while exiled from thee?
And whither rapt, now thou but stoop'st to me?
Dwell, dwell here still: O, being every where,
How can I doubt to find thee ever here?

I know my state both full of shame and scorn,
Conceived in sin and unto labour born;
Standing with fear, and must with horror fall,
And destined unto judgment after all.

I feel my griefs too; and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh to inflict another wound;

Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death, With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be

For weariness of life, not love of thee.

BEN JONSON.

Prayer for the Holy Spirit.
EFENDER of my rightful cause,

DE

While anguish from my bosom draws
The deep-felt sigh, the ceaseless pray'r,
O make thy servant still thy care.
That aid, which oft my griefs has heal'd,
To aid again, entreated, yield.

How long, ye sons of pride, how long
Shall falsehood arm your impious tongue,
And erring rage your breast inflame,
My pow'r to thwart, my acts defame ?
To God my heart shall vent its woe,
Who, prompt his blessings to bestow
On each whose breast has learn'd his fear,
Bows to my plaint the willing ear.
Him wouldst thou please?

With rev'rend awe

Observe the dictates of his law:
In secret on thy couch reclin'd
Search to its depth thy restless mind,
Till hush'd to peace the tumult lie,
And wrath and strife within thee die.

With purest gifts approach his shrine,

And safe to him thy care resign.

I hear a hopeless train demand,

"Where's now the wish'd Deliv'rer's hand ?”

Do Thou, my God, do Thou reply,
And let thy presence from on high
In full effusion o'er our head,
Its all-enlivening influence shed.
What joy my conscious heart o'erflows!
Not such the exulting lab'rer knows,
When to his long expecting eyes
The vintage and the harvests rise,
And, shadowing wide the cultur'd soil,
With full requital crown his toil.
My weary eyes in sleep I close,

My limbs, secure, to rest compose;

For Thou, great God, shalt screen my head,

And plant a guard around my bed.

Prayer for Time.

MERRICK.

AND must the harp of Judah sleep again?

Shall I no more reanimate the lay?

O Thou who visitest the sons of men,

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, One little space prolong my mournful day; One little lapse suspend thy last decree!

I am a youthful traveller in the way, And this slight boon would consecrate to Thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

am free.