Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.

Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by Thy breath;
O lead me wheresoe'er I go,

Through this day's life or death.

This day be bread and peace my lot;
All else beneath the sun

Thou know'st if best bestowed or not,
And let Thy will be done!

To Thee whose temple is all space,-
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies,—
One chorus let all beings raise!
All Nature's incense rise!

Joseph Addison.

1672-1719.

AN ODE.

The spacious firmament on high,

With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim.

The unwearied sun from day to day
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly, to the listening earth, Repeats the story of her birth;

Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing as they shine,

"The Hand that made us is divine!"

Thomas Sternbold.

DIED 1549.

MAJESTY OF GOD.

The Lord descended from above,
And bowed the heavens most high,
And underneath His feet He cast
The darkness of the sky.

On cherubim and seraphim

Full royally He rode,

And on the wings of mighty winds

Came flying all abroad.

He sat serene upon the floods,

Their fury to restrain;

And He, as sovereign Lord and King,
For evermore shall reign.

William Drummond.

1585-1649.

TO A NIGHTINGALE.

Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care;
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling
flowers:

To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,

Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,

And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet, artless songster! thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres,-yes, and to angels' lays.

George Witber.
1588-1667.

FOR ONE THAT HEARS HIMSELF MUCH
PRAISED.

My sin and follies, Lord! by Thee
From others hidden are,

That such good words are spoke of me,

As now and then I hear;

For sure if others knew me such,

Such as myself I know,

I should have been dispraised as much
As I am praised now.

The praise, therefore, which I have heard,
Delights not so my mind,

As those things make my heart afeard,

Which in myself I find;

And I had rather to be blamed,
So I were blameless made,
Than for much virtue to be famed,
When I no virtues had.

Though slanders to an innocent
Sometimes do bitter grow,
Their bitterness procures content,
If clear himself he know.
And when a virtuous man hath erred,
If praised himself he hear,

It makes him grieve, and more afeard
Than if he slandered were.

Lord! therefore make my heart upright,
Whate'er my deeds do seem;
And righteous rather in Thy sight,
Than in the world's esteem.

And if aught good appear to be

In any act of mine,

Let thankfulness be found in me,
And all the praise be Thine.

LEMUEL'S SONG.

Who finds a woman good and wise,

A gem more worth than pearl hath got ;

Her husband's heart on her relies;

To live by spoil he needeth not.