THE WATCHING OF PROVIDENCE.

In foreign realms, and lands remote,
Supported by Thy care,

Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt,
And breath'd in tainted air.

Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil,
Made every region please:
The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd,
And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas.

Think, O my soul, devoutly think,
How, with affrighted eyes,
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep,
In all its horrors rise!

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free;
Whilst, in the confidence of prayer,
My soul took hold on Thee.

For though in dreadful whirls we hung,
High on the broken wave,

I knew Thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

The storm was laid, the winds retir'd,
Obedient to Thy will;

The sea, that roar'd at Thy command,
At Thy command was still.

In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore;

And praise Thee for Thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if Thou preserv'st my life,

Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death, if death must be my doom,

Shall join my soul to Thee!

Joseph Addison.

CONSOLATION.

WHEN rising from the bed of death,
O'erwhelm'd with grief and fear,

I see my Maker face to face,-
Oh, how shall I appear!

If yet, while pardon may be found,
And mercy may be sought,

My heart with inward horror shrinks,
And trembles at the thought;

When Thou, O Lord, shalt stand disclosed

In majesty severe,

And sit in judgment on my soul;

Oh, how shall I appear!

But Thou hast told the troubled soul,

Who does her sins lament,

The timely tribute of her tears

Shall endless woe prevent.

Then see the sorrows of my heart

Ere yet it be too late;

And hear my Saviour's dying groans,
To give those sorrows' weight.

For never shall my soul despair

Her pardon to procure,

Who knows Thine only Son has died,

To make that pardon sure.

Addison.

THE PROMISED LAND.

THERE is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign ;
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.

There everlasting spring abides,
And never-withering flowers;
Death, like a narrow sea, divides
This heavenly land from ours.

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood,
Stand dress'd in living green;

So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan roll'd between.

But timorous mortals start and shrink

To cross this narrow sea,

And linger shivering on the brink,
And fear to launch away.

Oh! could we make our doubts remove,

Those gloomy doubts which rise, And see the Canaan that we love,

With unbeclouded eyes.

THE PROMISED LAND.

Could we but climb where Moses stood,
And view the landscape o'er,

Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood
Should fright us from the shore.

Give me the wings of faith to rise
Within the veil, and see

The saints above, how great their joys,
How bright their glories be.

Once they were mourning here below,
And wet their couch with tears;
They wrestled hard, as we do now,
With sins and doubts and fears.

I ask them whence their victory came;
They, with united breath,

Ascribe their conquest to the Lamb,
Their triumph to His death.

They mark'd the footsteps that He trod
(His zeal inspired their breast);
And following their incarnate God
Possess'd the promised rest.

Our glorious Leader claims our praise,
For His own pattern given,
While the long cloud of witnesses
Shows the same path to Heaven.

Isaac Watts.

TIME COMING AND GONE.

АH! how unjust to Nature, and Himself
Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent Man!
Like children babbling nonsense in their sports,

We censure Nature for a span too short;
That span too short, we tax as tedious too;
Torture invention, all expedients tire,

To lash the ling'ring moments into speed,

And whirl us (happy riddance!) from ourselves.

Art, brainless Art! our furious charioteer

Drives headlong tow'rds the precipice of Death;

Death, most our dread; death thus more dreadful made : O! what a riddle of absurdity!

Leisure is pain; takes off our chariot-wheels;

How heavily we drag the load of life!
Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain,
It makes us wander; wander earth around
To fly that tyrant, Thought. As Atlas groan'd
The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour;
We cry for mercy to the next amusement;
The next amusement mortgages our fields;
Slight inconvenience!

Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief,
We call him cruel; years to moments shrink,
Ages to years. The telescope is turn'd.
To man's false optics (from his folly false)
Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings,
And seems to creep, decrepit with his age;
Behold him, when past by; what then is seen,
But his broad pinions swifter than the winds?
And all mankind, in contradiction strong,
Rueful, aghast! cry out on his career.

Edward Young.