The mysteries of creation lie

Beneath enlighten'd minds,

Thoughts can afcend above the sky,

And fly before the winds.

Reafon may grafp the maffy hills,
And stretch from pole to pole,
But half thy name our spirit fills,
And overloads our foul.

In vain our haughty reafon fwells,
For nothing's found in Thee
But boundless unconceivables,
And vaft eternity.

CONFESSION AND PARDON.

ALAS, my aking heart!

Here the keen torment lies;

It racks my waking hours with smart,
And frights my flumbering eyes.

Guilt will be hid no more,
My griefs take vent apace,

The crimes that blot my confcience o'er
Flush crimson in my face.

My forrows, like a flood,
Impatient of restraint,
Into thy bosom, O my God,

Pour out a long complaint.

This impious heart of mine

Could once defy the Lord,

Could rush with violence on to fin,

In prefence of thy fword.

How often have I ftood

A rebel to the skies,

The calls, the tenders of a God,

And mercy's loudeft cries!

He offers all his grace,

And all his heaven to mc; Offers! but 'tis to fenfelefs brass, That cannot feel nor fee.

Jefus the Saviour flands

To court me from above,

And looks and fpreads his wounded hands,
And fhew's the prints of love.

But I, a ftupid fool,

How long have I withstood

The bleflings purchas'd with his foul,

And paid for all in blood!

The heavenly Dove came down
And tender'd me his wings
To mount me upward to a crown,
And bright immortal things.

Lord, I'm afham'd to fay
That I refus'd thy Dove,
And fent thy Spirit griev'd away,

To his own realms of love.

Not

Not all thine heavenly charms,

Nor terrors of thy hand,

Could force me to lay down my arms,

And bow to thy command.

Lord, 'tis against thy face

My fins like arrows rife,

And yet, and yet (O matchlefs grace!)
Thy thunder filent lies.

O fhall I never feel

The meltings of thy love?
Am I fuch hell-harden'd fteel
That mercy cannot move?
Now for one powerful glance,
Dear Saviour, from thy face!
This rebel-heart no more withstands,
But finks beneath thy grace.

O'ercome by dying love I fall,
Here at thy crofs I lie;

And throw my flesh, my foul, my all,

And weep, and love, and die.

"Rife, fays the Prince of Mercy, rise,
"With joy and pity in his eyes:
"Rife, and behold my wounded veins,
"Here flows the blood to wash thy ftains.

"See
my Great Father reconcil'd:"
He faid. And lo, the Father fmil'd:
The joyful cherubs clap'd their wings,
And founded grace on all their ftrings.

Young

Young Men and Maidens, Old Men and Babes, praise ye the LORD, Pfal. cxlviii. 12.

ONS of Adam, bold and young,

SON

In the wild mazes of whofe veins

A flood of fiery vigour reigns,

And weilds your active limbs, with hardy finews ftrung; Fall proftrate at th' eternal throne

Whence your precarious powers depend;
Nor fwell as if your lives were all your own,
But choose your Maker for your friend;

His favour is your life, his arm is your fupport,
His hand can stretch your days, or cut your minutes fhort.

Virgins, who roll your artful eyes,
And shoot delicious danger thence;
Swift the lovely lightning flies,
And melts our reafon down to sense;
Boaft not of thofe withering charms
That must yield their youthful grace
To age and wrinkles, earth and worms;
But love the Author of your fimiling face;

That heavenly bridegroom claims your blooming hours:

O make it your perpetual care

To please that Everlasting Fair;

His beauties are the fun, and but the fhade is yours.

Infants, whose different deftinies

Are wove with threads of different size ;

But

But from the fame fpring-tide of tears,
Commence your hopes, and joys, and fears,

(A tedious train!) and date your following years: Break your first filence in his praise

Who wrought your wondrous frame:
With founds of tendereft accent raise
Young honours to his name;
And confecrate your early days
To know the Power fupreme.

Ye heads of venerable age,
Juft marching off the mortal stage,
Fathers, whofe vital threads are spun

As long as e'er the glass of life would run,
Adore the hand that led your way

Through flowery fields a fair long summer's day;
Gafp out your foul in praises to the fovereign power
That set your Weft fo distant from your dawning hour.

Flying Fowl, and Creeping Things, praife ye the LORD, Pfal. cxlviiii. ro,

SW

WEET flocks, whose soft enamel'd wing
Swift and gently cleaves the sky;

Whose charming notes address the spring

With an artless harmony.

Lovely minstrels of the field,

Who in leafy fhadows fit,

And your wondrous ftructures build,

Awake your tuneful voices with the dawning light:

To