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VENI CREATOR.

CREATOR SPIRIT, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind;
Come pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.

0, source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete !
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring,
To sanctify us while we sing.

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy seven-fold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty hand, Whose power does heaven and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence.

Refine and purge our earthly parts:
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts :
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.

Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.

Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe: Give us thyself, that we may see The Father, and the Son, by thee.

Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name:
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died :
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee!

DRYDEN.

PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII.

THE Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye:
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering steps he leads ;

Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still ;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious, lonely wilds I stray;
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile :
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crowned,
And streams shall murmur all around.

DISON.

THE BROOK.

Sweet brooklet! ever gliding,
Now high the mountain riding,
The lone vale now dividing,

Whither away ?

“With pilgrim course I flow,
Or in summer's scorching glow,
Or o'er moonless wastes of snow,

Nor stop, nor stay :

For still, by high behest,
To a bright abode of rest,
On my parent Ocean's breast,

I hasten away.'
Many a dark morass,
Many a craggy mass,
Thy feeble force must pass,

Yet, yet delay!

“Though the marsh be dire and deep,

Though the crag be stern and steep,
On, on my course must keep;

I may not stay:

For be it east or west,
To a home of glorious rest,
On the bright sea's boundless breast,

I hasten away.”

The warbling bowers beside thee,
The laughing flowers that hide thee,
With sweet accord they chide thee;

Sweet brooklet, stay!

“I taste of the fragrant flowers,

I respond to the warbling bowers,
And sweetly they charm the hours

Of my onward way :

But ceaseless, still in quest
Of that everlasting rest
On my parent Ocean's breast,

I hasten away.”

GRANT. FOR LENT.

SAVIOUR! when in dust to thee
Low we bow the adoring knee,
When, repentant, to the skies
Scarce we lift our streaming eyes;
O! by all the pains and woe,
Suffered once for man below,
Bending from thy throne on high,
Hear our solemn litany!

By thy helpless infant years,
By thy life of wants and tears,
By thy days of sore distress
In the savage wilderness;
By the dread permitted hour
Of the insulting tempter's power,
Turn, O turn a pitying eye-
Hear our solemn litany!

By the sacred grief that wept
O’er the grave where Lazarus slept;
By the boding tears that flowed
Over Salem's loved abode;
By the anguished words that told,
Treachery lurked within thy fold;
From thy seat above the sky,
Hear our solemn litany!

By thine hour of dire despair,
By thine agony of prayer,
By the cross, the nail, the thorn;
Piercing spear, and torturing scorn!

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