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"Tis this the weary sailor cheers, Who now no more the tempest hears, Which morning bids to cease:

O come that day-spring from on high, When discord shall with darkness fly, And all be light and peace!

"Twas this that drew repentant tears From Peter, led by worldly fears His master to disown;

Warn'd by the monitor of day,
He cast the works of night away,
And sought th' abjured sun.
Whene'er the bird of dawning crows,
He tells us all how Peter rose,

And mark'd us out the road;

That each disciple might begin,
Awake, like him, from sleep and sin,
To think betimes on God.

Smote by the eye that looks on all,
Let us, obedient to the call,

Arise to weep and pray ;

Till mournful, as on sin we muse, Faith, like an angel, tells the news, "The Lord is ris'n to-day!"

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DAVID GARRICK'S FUNERAL PROCESSION.

THRO' weeping London's crowded streets,
As Garrick's fun'ral pass'd,
Contending wits and nobles strove,
Who should forsake him last.

Not so the world behav'd to him,
Who came that world to save,
By solitary Joseph borne
Unheeded to his grave.

If what is done by mortals here
Departed spirits know,

Confus'd and blushing, Garrick views
This grand parade of woe.

Tho' much to be admir'd by man,

He had yet, gracious Heav'n!
Much, very much he had, indeed,
By thee to be forgiv'n.

But thou art good!—And since he died
Compos'd without a groan,

Repentant David, let us hope,

May live through David's Son.

WRITTEN AT AN INN.

FROM much-lov'd friends whene'er I part,
A pensive sadness fills my heart;
Past scenes my fancy wanders o'er,
And sighs to think they are no more.
Along the road I musing go,

O'er many a deep and miry slough:
The shrouded moon withdraws her light,
And leaves me to the gloomy night.

An inn receives me, where unknown
I solitary sit me down:

Many I hear, and some I see,

I nought to them, they nought to me.

Thus in these regions of the dead
A pilgrim's wand'ring life I lead,
And still at every step declare,
I've no abiding city here:

For very far from hence I dwell,
And therefore bid the world farewell,
Finding of all the joys it gives

A sad remembrance only lives.

Rough stumbling-stones my steps o'erthrow,
And lay a wand'ring sinner low;

Yet still my course to heav'n I steer,
Tho' neither moon nor stars appear!

-The world is like an inn; for there
Men call, and storm, and drink, and swear;
While undisturb'd a Christian-waits,

And reads, and writes, and meditates.
Tho' in the dark oft-times I stray,
The Lord shall light me on my way,
And to the city of the Sun

Conduct me, when my journey's done.
There by these eyes shall He be seen,
Who sojourn'd for me in an inn;
On Sion's hill I those shall hail,
From whom I parted in the vale.

Why am I heavy then and sad,

When thoughts like these should make me glad?

Muse then no more on things below;

Arise, my soul, and let us go.

THE MONKISH LATIN HYMN,

USED AS A GRACE AFTER MEAT, AT MAGDALEN COLLEGE,

OXFORD.

TE Deum patrem colimus,

Te laudibus prosequimur,

Qui corpus cibo reficis,

Cœlesti mentem gratiâ.

Te adoramus, O Jesu,
Te, Fili unigenite,

Te, qui non dedignatus es
Subire claustra virginis.

Actus in crucem factus es

Irato Deo victima ;

Per te, Salvator unice,

Vitæ

spes nobis rediit.

Tibi, æterne Spiritus,

Cujus afflatu peperit
Infantem Deum Maria,

Æternum benedicimus.

Triune Deus, hominum
Salutis autor optime,
Immensum hoc mysterium

Ovanti linguâ canimus.

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