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And let the prince of Hell
Look grim as e'er he will,
He harms us not a whit;
For why? His doom is writ,
A word mall quickly flay him.

God's word, for all their craft and force,

One moment will not linger,
But, spite of Hell, mall have its course:
'Tis written by his finger.

And though they take our life,
Goods, honor, children, wife,
Yet is their profit small:
These things mall vanifh all,
The City of God remaineth.

Martin Luther. 1483- 1501.



OFAIR-HAIRED Northern hero,
With thy guard of dufky hue,
Up from the field of battle
Rise to the laft review!

Sweep downwards, holy angels,

In legions dazzling bright,
And bear these souls together

Before Chrift's throne of light.

The Mafter, who remembers

The cross, the thorns, the spear,

Smiles on the risen freedmen,
As their ransomed souls appear.

And thou, young, generous spirit,

What will thy welcome be?
"Thou haft aided the down-trodden,

Thou haft done it unto me!"

Mrs. R. C. IVaterJlon.

CA O to the grave in all thy glorious prime,
f In full activity of zeal and power;
A Chriftian cannot die before his time;

The Lord's appointment is the servant's hour.

Go to the grave; at noon from labor cease;

Reft on thy fheaves; thy harveft-tafk is done; Come from the heat of battle, and in peace,

Soldier, go home; with thee the fight is won.

Go to the grave; for there thy Saviour lay
In death's embrace, ere he arose on high;

And all the ransomed, by that narrow way,
Pass to eternal life beyond the fky.

Go to the grave ; — no; take thy seat above;

Be thy pure spirit present with the Lord, Where thou for faith and hope haft perfeft love,

And open vifion for the written word.

J. Montgomery. 1803-1853.

OHOLY Father, juft and true
Are all thy works and words and ways,
And unto thee alone are due

Thanksgiving and eternal praise!
As children of thy gracious care,

We veil the eye, we bend the knee,
With broken words of praise and prayer,
Father and God, we come to thee.

For thou haft heard, O God of right,
The fighing of the hapless flave;

And ftretched for him the arm of might,
Not fhortened that it could not save.

The laborer fits beneath his vine,

The fhackled soul and hand are free; —

Thanksgiving ! — for the work is thine!
Praise! — for the blefling is of thee.

Speed on thy work, Lord God of hofts!

And when the bondsman's chain is riven,
And swells from all our country's coafts

The anthem of the free to heaven,
O, not to those whom thou haft led,

As with thy cloud and fire before,
But unto thee, in fear and dread,

Be praise and glory evermore.

J. G. Whittier.


AVOICE from the desert comes awful and fhrill;
The Lord is advancing; prepare ye the way!
The word of his promise he comes to fulfil,
And o'er the dark world pour the splendor of day.

Bring down the proud mountain, though towering to heaven,
And be the low valley exalted on high;
The rough path and crooked be made smooth and even,
He cometh! our King, our Redeemer is nigh.

The beams of salvation his progress illume,
The lone, dreary wilderness fings of her God;
The rose and the myrtle there suddenly bloom,
And the olive of peace spreads its branches abroad.

Drummond. 15 8 5 - 1649.

OPPRESSION fhall not always reign;
There comes a brighter day,
When freedom, burft from every chain,

Shall have triumphant way.
Then right fhall over might prevail,
And truth, like hero armed in mail,
The hofts of tyrant wrong aflail,
And hold eternal sway.

What voice fhall bid the progress ftay

Of truth's victorious car?
What arm arreft the growing day,

Or quench the solar ftar?
What reckless soul, though ftout and ftrong,
Shall dare bring back the ancient wrong,
Oppreflion's guilty night prolong,

And freedom's morning bar?

The hour of triumph comes apace,
The fated, promised hour,

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