Look up, my soul, pant tow'rd the' eternal hills; Those heavens are fairer than they seem;

There pleasures, all sincere, glide on in crystal rills,
There not a dreg of guilt defiles,
Nor grief disturbs the stream.
That Canaan knows no noxious thing,

No cursed soil, no tainted spring,

Nor roses grow on thorns, nor honey wears a sting.

FELICITY ABOVE.

No, 'tis in vain to seek for bliss ;

For bliss can ne'er be found, Till we arrive where Jesus is, And tread on heavenly ground.

There's nothing round these painted skies,
Or round this dusty clod;

Nothing, my soul, that's worth thy joys,
Or lovely as thy God.

'Tis Heaven on earth to taste his love,
To feel his quickening grace;
And all the Heaven I hope above,
Is but to see his face.

Why move my years in slow delay?
O God of ages! why?

Let the spheres cleave, and mark my way
To the superior sky.

Dear Sovereign, break these vital strings
That bind me to my clay;
Take me, Uriel, on thy wings,
And stretch and soar away.

SELF-CONSECRATION.

Ir grieves me, Lord, it grieves me sore,
That I have liv'd to thee no more,
And wasted half my days;

My inward powers shall burn and flame
With zeal and passion for thy name,

I would not speak, but for my God, nor move but to his praise.

What are my eyes, but aids to see
The glories of the Deity

Inscrib'd with beams of light,

On flowers and stars? Lord, I behold

The shining azure, green and gold;

[my sight.

But when I try to read thy name, a dimness veils

Mine ears are rais'd when Virgil sings
Sicilian swains, or Trojan kings,

And drink the music in:

Why should the trumpet's brazen voice,

Or oaten reed, awake my joys,

[begin?

And yet my heart so stupid lie, when sacred hymns

Change me, O God; my flesh shall be

An instrument of song to thee, ·

And thou the notes inspire;

My tongue shall keep the heavenly chime,
My cheerful pulse shall beat the time,

[spire.

And sweet variety of sound shall in thy praise con

The dearest nerve about my heart,
Should it refuse to bear a part

With my melodious breath,
I'd tear away the vital chord,
A bloody victim to my Lord,

[zeal in death.

And live without that impious string, or show my

THE CREATOR AND CREATURES.

GoD is a name my soul adores,

The' Almighty Three, the' Eternal One ; Nature and grace, with all their pow'rs, Confess the infinite unknown.

From thy great Self thy being springs,
Thou art thine own original,
Made up of uncreated things,
And self-sufficience bears them all.

Thy voice produc'd the seas and spheres,
Bid the waves roar, and planets shine;
But nothing like thy Self appears,

Through all these spacious works of thîne.

Still restless Nature dies and grows:

From change to change the creatures run :

Thy being no succession knows,

And all thy vast designs are one.

A glance of thine runs through the globes,
Rules the bright worlds, and moves their frame:
Broad sheets of light compose thy robes;
Thy guards are form'd of living flame.

Thrones and dominions round thee fall,
And worship in submissive forms;
Thy presence shakes this lower ball,
This little dwelling-place of worms.

How shall affrighted mortals dare
To sing thy glory or thy grace,
Beneath thy feet we lie so far,
And see but shadows of thy face?

Who can behold the blazing light?
Who can approach consuming flame?
None but thy wisdom knows thy might;
None but thy word can speak thy name.

THE NATIVITY OF CHRIST.

'SHEPHERDS, rejoice, lift up your eyes,
And send your fears away;
News from the region of the skies,
Salvation's born to-day.

'JESUS, the God whom angels fear,
Comes down to dwell with you;
To-day he makes his entrance here,
But not as monarchs do.

'No gold, nor purple swadling bands,
Nor royal shining things;

A manger for his cradle stands,
And holds the King of kings.

'Go, shepherds, where the infant lies,
And see his humble throne;
With tears of joy in all your eyes,
Go, shepherds, kiss the Son.'

Thus Gabriel sang, and straight around
The heavenly armies throng;
They tune their harps to lofty sound,
And thus conclude the song:

'Glory to God that reigns above,
Let peace surround the earth:
Mortals shall know their Maker's love,
At their Redeemer's birth.'

Lord! and shall angels have their songs,
And men no tunes to raise ?

O may we lose these useless tongues
When they forget to praise!

Glory to God that reigns above,
That pitied us forlorn,

We join to sing our Maker's love,
For there's a Saviour born.