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Author of being! life-sustaining king!
Lo! want's dependant eye from Thee implores
The seasons, which provide nutritious stores;
Give to her prayers the renovating spring,
And summer's heats all perfecting, that bring
The fruits which autumn, from a thousand shores
Selecteth provident! when earth adores
Her God, and all her vales. exultory sing.
Without thy blessing the submissive steer
Bends to the ploughman's galling yolk in vain;
Without thy blessing on the varied year,
Can the swarth reaper grasp the golden grain?
Without thy blessing all is blank and drear;
With it the joys of Eden bloom again.

Wordsworth.
Blessed be thy name for ever,
Thou of life the guard and giver;
Thou canst guard the creatures sleeping,
Heal the heart long broke with weeping.
God of stillness and of motion,
Of the desert and the ocean,
Of the mountain, rock, and river,
Blessed be thy name for ever.
Thou who slumberest not, nor sleepest,
Blest are they thou kindly keepest;
God of evening's parting ray,
Of midnight's gloom, and dawning day,
That rises from the azure sea,
Like breathings of eternity;
God of life! that fade shall never,
Blessed be thy name for ever. James Hogg.

Oh! 'tis a sight the soul to cheer,
The promise of the fruitful year,
When God abroad his bounty flings,
And answering nature laughs and sings!
He, "for the evil and the good,”
For them, who with heart's gratitude,
For them, who thanklessly receive
The blessings He vouchsafes to give,
Bids from his storehouse in the skies,
"His rain descend, his sun arise."

Mant. Thrice blessed they who dwell

Within thine house, my God,
Where daily praises swell,

And still the floor is trod
By those who in thy presence bow,
By those whose King and God art thou.

J. Montgomery.
Blessed are the pure in heart,

For they shall see our God;
The secret of the Lord is theirs,

Their soul is Christ's abode.
Spotless their robes and pure,

Dipped in the sea of light,
That hides the unapproached shrine
From men's and angels' sight.

Keble.

From darkness, here and dreariness,

We ask not full repose,
Only be thou at hand to bless

Our trial hour of woes.
Is not the pilgrim's toil o'erpaid
By the clear rill and palmy shade?
And see we not, up earth's dark glade,

The gate of Heaven unclose?

Keble.

Thou that created'st all! Thou fountain

Of our sun's light-who dwellest far

From man, beyond the farthest star,
Yet, ever present; who dost heed
Our spirits in their human need;

We bless thee, Father, that we are!
We bless thee for our inward life;

For its immortal date decreeing;
For that which comprehendeth thee,
A spark of thy divinity,

Which is the being of our being!
We bless thee for this bounteous earth;

For its increase-for corn and wine:
For forest-oaks, for mountain-rills;
For cattle "on a thousand hills;"
We bless thee-for all good is thine!

Mary Howitt.

We have the promise of th' eternal truth,

Those who live well, and pious paths pursue,

To man and to their Maker true;
Let them expire in age or youth,

Can never miss
Their way to everlasting bliss;
But from a world of misery and care,
To mansions of eternal ease repair;

Where joy in full perfection flows,
And in an endless circle moves

Through the vast round of beatific love,
Which no cessation knows.

John Pomfret.

No, 't is in vain to seek for bliss,

For bliss can ne'er be found 'Till we arrive where Jesus is,

And tread on heav'nly ground.

Watts.

When we have slept that dreamless sleep,

Which dearest hearts must sever; O may we wake no more to weep,

But live in bliss for ever. John Linden.

True bliss, the flower of Paradise,

Lives not in this ungenial clime;
It blossoms in celestial skies,

Beyond the ravages of time;
The joy to christian pilgrims given,
Is but the rich perfume of heaven.

W. J. Brock.
True bliss, the flower of Paradise,

Why seek it here below?
It groweth only 'neath those skies

With love divine that glow.
Warmed by the sun of righteousness,

And watered by the dews
Of mercy, and redeeming grace,

How lively are its hues!
In heaven, an amaranthine flower,
On earth, it blossoms but an hour. Egone.

BLINDNESS.
The Lord openeth the eyes of the blind.--Psalm cxlvi. 8.
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened.—Isaiah, xxxv. 5.

He hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind.-Luke, iv. 18.

Having the understanding darkened, being alienated from the life of God through the ignorance that is in them, because of the blindness of their heart.-Ephesians, iv. 18.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide; “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?" I fondly ask: but patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's works, or his own gifts; who best

Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state

Is kingly, thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve, who only stand and wait.”

Milton.

There is a poor Blind Man, who every day,

In summer sunshine, or in winter's rain,

Duly as tolls the bell to the high fane,
Explores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way,
To kneel before his Maker, and to hear
The chanted service pealing full and clear.
Ask why, alone, in the same spot he kneels

Through the long year! Oh! the wide world is cold, As dark to him; here, he no longer feels

His sad bereavement-Faith and Hope uphold
His heart-he feels not he is poor and blind,
Amid the unpitying tumult of mankind:

As thro' the aisles the choral anthems roll,
His soul is in the choirs above the skies,
And songs, far off, of angel companies.

Oh! happy, if the Rich-the Vain—the Proud
The plumed Actors in life's motley crowd, -
Since pride is dust, and life itself a span,
Would learn one Lesson from a poor Blind Man.

· Lisle Bowles.

I see, and yet I see not; outward things

Are visible unto me: I behold
The fresh, cool verdure of succeeding springs;

The glories of the summer manifold;

The forests rich with their autumnal gold; The creatures beautiful, that spread their wings

In the warm sunshine; blossoms that unfold Bright as man's hopes and vain imaginings. The glories of the universe are spread

Before me, and I see them with delight: Yet am I blind of heart, and cold, and dead

To spiritual things. God grant me light To understand, and warmth to feel, and grace Thy message to receive—Thy wondrous power to trace.

Egone.

But in God's temple the great lamp is out,
And he must worship glory in the dark!
Till death, in midnight mystery, hath brought
The veiled soul's re-illuminating spark-
The pillar of the cloud enfolds the Ark!
And, like a man that prayeth underground,
In Bethlehem's rocky shrine, he can but mark

The lingering hours by circumstance and sound, And break, with gentle hymns, the solemn silence round.

Yet still life's better light shines out above!
And in that village church, where first he learned
To bear his cheerless doom, for heaven's dear love,
He sits, with wistful face, for ever turned
To hear of those who heavenly pity earned;
Blind Bartimeus, and him desolate,
Who for Bethesda's waters vainly yearned:

And only sighs, condemned so long to wait, Baffled and helpless still; beyond the Temple gate!

Mrs. Norton.

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