Poematia Latine Partim Reddita, Partim Scripta |
Contents
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Page 102 - HOW are thy servants blest, O Lord, How sure is their defence ! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help, omnipotence.
Page 100 - Ten thousand thousand precious gifts My daily thanks employ ; Nor is the least a cheerful heart, That tastes those gifts with joy. Through every period of my life Thy goodness I'll pursue ; And after death, in distant worlds, The glorious theme renew.
Page 58 - Busy, curious, thirsty fly, Drink with me, and drink as I ; Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip and sip it up. Make the most of life you may ; Life is short, and wears away. " Both alike are mine and thine, Hastening quick to their decline ; Thine's a summer, mine no more, Though repeated to threescore ; Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one.
Page 96 - When all thy mercies, O my God, My rising soul surveys; Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise.
Page 98 - When in the slippery paths of youth, With heedless steps, I ran ; Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe, And led me up to man.
Page 112 - Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth Repeats the story of her birth; Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.
Page 106 - O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear, I see my Maker, face to face ; O, how shall I appear . 2 If yet, while pardon may be found, And mercy may be sought, My heart with inward horror shrinks, And trembles at the thought ; 3 When thou, O Lord, shalt stand disclosed In majesty severe, And sit in judgment on my soul, O, how shall I appear...
Page 104 - 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.
Page 108 - 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. VI. For never shall my soul despair Her pardon to procure, Who knows thine only Son has died To make her pardon sure.
Page 50 - The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead, And all the village wept. Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, At once his bosom swell : The damps of death bedew'd his brow, He shook, he groan'd, he fell.