WE cannot think a gracious thought,
We cannot feel a good desire,
Till He who spake the world from nought
The power into our hearts inspire;
And then we in the Spirit groan,
And then we give Him back His own.
SLEEPING IN JESUS.
ASLEEP in Jesus! blessed sleep!
From which none ever wakes to weep;
A calm and undisturbed repose,
Unbroken by the last of foes!
Asleep in Jesus! oh! how sweet
To be for such a slumber meet;
With holy confidence to sing
That death has lost his venomed sting!
Asleep in Jesus! peaceful rest,
Whose waking is supremely blest;
No fear-no woe shall dim that hour,
That manifests the Saviour's power.
Asleep in Jesus! oh, for me
May such a blissful refuge be:
Securely shall my ashes lie,
Waiting the summons from on high!
Asleep in Jesus! time nor space
Debars this precious "hiding-place:"
On Indian plains, or Lapland snows,
Believers find the same repose.
Asleep in Jesus! far from thee
Thy kindred and their graves may
But thine is still a blessed sleep,
From which none ever wakes to weep!
TURN, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm;
The frame thy wayward looks deride
Required a God to form.
The common Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flowed,
A portion of His boundless love
moon, the stars He made,
To all His creatures free;
And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade,
For worms as well as thee.
Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive;
Oh! do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.
PLANT of ethereal birth!
Too exquisitely wrought
For aliment of earth,
Thy rootless garland, fraught
With breath of heaven, ruled by mysterious laws, Its secret life from viewless fountains draws.
Bright emblem of the soul,
That lives on the unseen;
Surmounting all control
And power of things terrene.
Unearthly flower, fed by a heavenly ray!
Thus would we live as children of the day.
THE PILGRIM'S ASYLUM.
WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In the ocean's bosom, unespied,
From a small boat that rowed along,
The listening winds received this song:
"What should we do but sing His praise,
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs,
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storm's and prelates' rage;
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels everything;
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air;
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night;
And does in the pomegranate close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet:
But apple plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars, chosen by His hand
From Lebanon, He stores the land,
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel pearl upon this coast,
And in its rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name.
Oh! let our voice His praise exalt,
Till it arise at heaven's vault,
Which then (perhaps), rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."
Thus sang they in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
Works of Andrew Marvel, by Capt.
Edmund Thompson, 1776.
TRANSLATION FROM MUSCULUS.
My fainting life is nearly gone,
My frame is chilled with dying cold; But Jesus, thou, my better life,
Canst neither sicken nor be old.
Why tremblest thou, my parting soul?
To mansions of eternal rest
That Angel waits to guide thy way,
And bless thee there among the blest.
Quit then, oh quit, this wretched house!
Nor, at its ruin, once repine;
God soon shall build it up again,
And bid it with new lustre shine.
But, art thou all-defiled with sins?
Fear not, my soul, thou ne'er shalt fall;
Believe His faithful Word, and know,
The blood of Christ can cleanse them all.
Can death a thousand horrors show?
True, soul; but, what is death to thee?
Life is at hand, the promised life,
And, like its Giver, sure and free.
Lo! Christ, o'er Satan, sin, and death,
Yonder in triumph sits on high:
Fly, happy soul, with eager wings;
Away to Jesus swiftly fly!
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