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For thou canst quell the stormy breast,
And still the threat'ning wave,
And when the soul is sinking fast
Wilt stretch an arm to save :
And fix'd on thee the stricken heart
From grief a balm can bring,
From anguish draw a joy, and find
E'en honey in the sting.

When drearily and heavily
The night hours wear away,

And joy lights not the eye of dawn,
And hope comes not with day;
When morning's glow, or mid-day's sun,
Will bring no cheer to me,

Oh, let me not, thou gracious One,
Forget my prayers to thee.

For thou canst make the darksome night

Both glorious and fair,

The drear and lonely hours more bright
Than those of mid-day are.

Thy Spirit shed abroad will light
And cheer the sinking breast,

And in the beauty of its might

Turn tumults into rest.

W. MARTIN.

THE SABBATH.

DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me
When village bells awake the day;
And, by their sacred minstrelsy,
Call me from earthly cares away.

And dear to me the winged hour,
Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord!
To feel devotion's soothing power,
And catch the manna of thy word.

And dear to me the loud Amen,
Which echoes through the blest abode,
Which swells and sinks, and swells again,
Dies on the walls, but lives to God.

And dear the rustic harmony,

Sung with the pomp of village art;
That holy, heavenly melody,
The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often pray'd,

And still the anxious tear would fall;
But on thy sacred altar laid,

The fire descends, and dries them all.

Oft when the world, with iron hands,

Has bound me in its six-days chain,

This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.

Then dear to me the Sabbath morn,
The village bells, the shepherd's voice;
These oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms;
Ours be the prophet's car of fire,
That bears us to a Father's arms.

CUNNINGHAM.

WHEN THE HEART IS SORE SMITTEN.

WHEN the heart is sore smitten by sorrow,
And the bosom is darksome and drear,
And when bright hope no longer may borrow
A smile from the future to cheer,

And the eye that would gaze on the morrow,
Is constrain'd to gaze on through a tear-
Even then there's a hope that can brighten
The soul in its darksome abode,

That can dry up its sorrow, and lighten
The weight of its wearisome load;
"Tis that hope which no new joy can heighten,
That leads it to trust in its God.

Though the world to our griefs may be ever
Disdainful, unkind, and unjust,

And mankind may be eager to sever
The links of our holier trust,

And the mighty may daily endeavour
To tread our torn hearts in the dust-
Still thy presence, Lord, cannot be taken
From those that all faithful will be:
Then why should our spirits be shaken?
And why should we languish to flee?
When we know we are never forsaken,
In the midst of our troubles, by Thee.
W. MARTIN.

A CRY TO GOD.

THOU God of glorious majesty,
To thee, against myself, to thee,
A worm of earth, I cry;

An half-awaken'd child of man,
An heir of endless bliss or pain,
A sinner born to die!

Lo! on a narrow neck of land, "Twixt two unbounded seas I stand, Secure, insensible:

A point of time, a moment's space, Removes me to that heavenly place, Or shuts me up in hell.

O God, mine inmost soul convert! And deeply on my thoughtless heart Eternal things impress:

Give me to feel their solemn weight, And tremble on the brink of fate, And wake to righteousness.

Before me place, in dread array, The pomp of that tremendous day, When thou in clouds shalt come To judge the nations at thy bar; And tell me, Lord, shall I be there To meet a joyful doom?

Be this my one great business here,
With serious industry and fear
Eternal bliss t' ensure:

Thine utmost counsel to fulfil,
And suffer all thy righteous will,
And to the end endure.

Then, Saviour, then my soul receive, Transported from this vale to live And reign with thee above!

Where faith is sweetly lost in sight,
And hope in full supreme delight,

And everlasting love.

C. WESLEY.

TURNING TO GOD.

THE heart is like a dungeon drear,
Without a captive hope to grave
Upon its stony sadness cheer

In words of comfort-'tis a cave
O'ergrown with weeds both foul and dark,
Where but a reptile race will breed,-
But when it turns to God, a spark
Of living fire makes holy speed
To cheer its murky mists away,
And open it to gladsome day.

'Tis like a wild and desert plain,

Shrubless, herbless, parch'd, and sear'd; And like the hot siroc, the pain Of memory blisters all it rear'd In golden youth's blithe sunny ray, To be a balm to pining age; Fresh hopes are wither'd all away, Despair is all its heritage:

Yet when to God it turns and clings, 'Mid all a green oasis springs.

W. MARTIN.

NEARER TO THEE.

NEARER, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee!

E'en though it be a cross

That raiseth me:

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