Summer has a thousand charms,
All expressive of his worth;
'Tis his sun that lights and warms,
His the air that cools the earth.

What! has Autumn left to say
Nothing of a Saviour's grace?
Yes, the beams of milder day
Tell me of his smiling face.

Light appears with early dawn,
While the sun makes haste to rise;
See his bleeding beauties drawn
On the blushes of the skies.

Evening with a silent pace,
Slowly moving in the west,
Shows an emblem of his grace
Points to an eternal rest.

LXVII. LONGING TO BE WITH CHRIST.

To Jesus, the Crown of my Hope,

My soul is in haste to begone:

O bear me, ye cherubim, up,

And waft me away to his throne!

My Saviour, whom absent I love,
Whom, not having seen, I adore;
Whose name is exalted above

All glory, dominion, and power;

VOL. VIII.

M

Dissolve thou these bonds, that detain
My soul from her portion in thee,
Ah! strike off this adamant chain
And make me eternally free.

When that happy era begins,

When array'd in thy glories I shine
Nor grieve any more, by my sins,
The bosom on which I recline:

O then shall the veil be remov'd,

And round me thy brightness be pour'd
I shall meet him whom absent I lov'd,
I shall see whom unseen I ador❜d.

And then, never more shall the fears,
The trials, temptations, and woes,
Which darken this valley of tears,
Intrude on my blissful repose.

Or, if yet remember'd above,

Remembrance no sadness shall raise

They will be but new signs of thy love,
New themes for my wonder and praise.

Thus the strokes which from sin and from pain Shall set me eternally free

Will but strengthen and rivet the chain,

Which binds me, my Saviour, to thee.

LXVIII. LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS.

GOD moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform;

He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace:
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower

Blind unbelief is sure to err,*
And scan his work in vain :
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.

* John xiii. 7.

BRIEF ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION,

AND OF

THE MYSTIC WRITERS.