Sure here no false delay can charm the mind,
Nor to the terrors of the judgment blind;
Here Christian counsel thou may'st safe impart,
And find a ready entrance to the heart.
Yes, thou art welcomed to that sad abode,

But not to lead the sinner back to God.

"'Tis true," he cries, “I've sinned, but all have sin;

"Tis ne'er too late repentance to begin,

And God is ever ready to forgive:

I'll leave my evil courses, if I live ;
And if I die, I know, while God is just,

He's gracious too, and in his grace I trust."

And oft does treach'rous hope the mind beguile; Hope nourish'd by the friends' mistaken wile, Who cheer his heart with themes of other years, Assuage his sorrows, and divert his fears, Not by the love of Him who died to save, But by oblivion of the yawning grave. His ghastly stillness after fever's rage, And sinking pulse, a speedy death presage.Though asthma cut the breath, and hectic bloom, Or fierce catarrh consumption's victim doom,Though hoary lock and wither'd limbs proclaim That life's last tide forsakes the sinking frame, His thoughts are still of life, nor does he dwell On what he hopes of heav'n or fears of hell, Assents to all you tell of Christ and God,

Of the soul's worth, and of its last abode;
But the dull eye proclaims the absent mind.
To earthly hopes are all its thoughts confined,
Till the last struggle fix each quivering ball, [all.
Or phrenzy blend all thoughts, or stupor blot them
Or sometimes terrors seize the dying man,
When now his days are dwindled to a span,
And bitter are his tears for errors past,
And loud his prayers for mercy at the last.
No consolation now can reach his heart,
Nor gracious offers now relieve his smart.
"My sins are greater than can be forgiven,
No such vile wretch as I can enter heaven,-
Tis now too late," he shivers as he lies,
And in his mental agony he dies.

But all do not presume, nor all despair :
There be who, mid their poverty and care,
Have learn'd to store a treasure in the skies,
And thither oft their aspirations rise.

These hast thou seen amid their toils severe
Nor couldst thou see them thus without a tear,-
A tear of joy; for every count'nance told
Of bliss not to be bought with Ophir's gold.
Nor was that tear without its rapture too :
When death's pale messenger appear'd in view,
Their hope has triumph'd over nature's dread,
And strength divine sustain'd the sinking head,

The king of terrors made himself a spoil,
While the pale lips in sweet composure smile.
Unknown by men, they leave this sad abode,
And join the ransom'd round the throne of God.

THANKSGIVING.

O God! of old thou hast declared

That in thick darkness thou wouldst dwell; O, God! I have an house prepared For thee, the God of Israel;

O, God! for thy approving sign,

We thank thee-humbly thee adore!
O, God! make thou this Temple thine
For evermore, for evermore!

THE SCRIPTURES.

Kelly.

I LOVE the sacred Book of God;
No other can its place supply:
It points me to the saints above;
It gives me wings, and bids me fly.

Sweet book, in thee my eyes discern

The image of my absent Lord; From thine instructive page I learn The joys his presence will afford.

In thee I read my title clear

To mansions that will ne'er decay ;
My Lord, O when will he appear,
And bear his pris'ner far away!

Then shall I need thy light no more,
For nothing shall be then conceal'd;
When I have reach'd the heavenly shore,
The Lord himself will stand reveal'd.

When midst the throng celestial placed, The bright original I see,

From which thy sacred page was traced,
Sweet book, I've no more need of thee.

But while I'm here, thou shalt supply
His place, and tell me of his love;
I'll read, with Faith's discerning eye,
And get a taste of joys above.

I know his Spirit breathes in thee,
To animate his people here;

May thy sweet truths prove life to me,
Till in his presence I appear!

THE MARTYR'S HYMN.

W. Johnson.

HOLY Jesus! King of Glory!

Hosts on high thy praise proclaim; Joyful would my soul adore thee, That I suffer for thy name. Now I leave this world of sorrow, Leave this faint and dying clay, Soar on angels' wings, to borrow Robes of angels' bright array. Set, O set my spirit free; Let me die, to live with thee!

Now I see thee, Saviour, bending

From thy glorious throne on high :

See the cherubim descending,

With the chariots of the sky.
These shall waft my fainting spirit
To thy blissful home above,
In thy presence to inherit

Realms of everlasting love.

Set, O set my spirit free;
Let me die, to live with thee!