When man was lost, Thy pity look'd about,

To see what help in the earth or sky: But there was none; at least no help without: The help did in Thy bosom lie.

O show Thyself, &c.

There lay Thy Son: and must He leave that nest,
That hive of sweetness, to remove

Thraldom from those who would not at a feast
Leave one poor apple for Thy love?
O show Thyself, &c.

He did, He came : O my Redeemer dear,
After all this canst Thou be strange?
So many years baptized, and not appear;
As if Thy love could fail or change?
O show Thyself, &c.

Yet if Thou stayest still, why must I stay?
My God, what is this world to me?
This world of woe? Hence, all ye clouds, away,
Away; I must get up and see.

O show Thyself, &c.

What is this weary world; this meat and drink,
That chains us by the teeth so fast?
What is this womankind, which I can wink
Into a blackness and distaste?

O show Thyself, &c.

a

With one small sigh Thou gavest me the other day

I blasted all the joys about me;

And scowling on them as they pined away,

Now come again, said I, and flout me.
O show Thyself, &c.

Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake,

Which way soe'er I look, I see.

Some may dream merrily, but when they wake, They dress themselves and come to Thee. O show Thyself, &c.

We talk of harvests; there are no such things, But when we leave our corn and hay: There is no fruitful year, but that which brings The last and loved, though dreadful day. O show Thyself, &c.

O loose this frame, this knot of man untie,
That my free soul may use her wing,
Which now is pinion'd with mortality,
As an entangled, hamper'd thing.
O show Thyself, &c.

What have I left that I should stay and groan

The most of me to heaven is filed:

?

My thoughts and joys are all packed up and gone, And for their old acquaintance plead.

O show Thyself, &c.

Come, dearest Lord, pass not this holy season,

pray :

My flesh and bones and joints do And e'en my verse, when by the rhyme and

reason

The word is, "Stay," says ever, "Come."

O show Thyself to me,

Or take me up to Thee!

THE BRITISH CHURCH.

I JOY, dear Mother, when I view
Thy perfect lineaments, and hue
Both sweet and bright:

Beauty in thee takes up her place,
And dates her letters from thy face,
When she doth write.

A fine aspect in fit array,

Neither too mean, nor yet too gay,
Shows who is best:

Outlandish looks may not compare;
For all they either painted are,
Or else undrest.

She on the hills, which wantonly
Allureth all in hope to be

By her preferr'd,

Hath kiss'd so long her painted shrines,
That e'en her face by kissing shines,
For her reward.

She in the valley is so shy

Of dressing, that her hair doth lie
About her ears:

While she avoids her neighbor's pride,
She wholly goes on the other side,
And nothing wears.

But, dearest Mother, (what those miss,)
The mean thy praise and glory is,
And long may be.

Blessed be God, whose love it was
To double-moat thee with His grace,
And none but thee.

THE

THE QUIP.

merry world did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree

To meet together, where I lay,
And all in sport to jeer at me.

First, Beauty crept into a rose;

Which when I pluckt not, Sir, said she,

Tell me, I pray,
whose hands are those?
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then Money came, and, chinking still,
What tune is this, poor man? said he:
I heard in music you had skill:
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by
In silks that whistled, who but he!
He scarce allow'd me half an eye:
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, make an oration :
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Yet when the hour of Thy design
To answer these fine things shall come,
Speak not at large; say, I am Thine,
And then they have their answer home.

VANITY.

POOR, silly soul, whose hope and head lies low;
Whose flat delights on earth do creep and grow:
To whom the stars shine not so fair as eyes;
Nor solid work, as false embroideries;