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The Sower.

The seed once hidden in the ground,

The skill that makes our fruits abound!
New, every year,

Thy gifts appear ;

New praises from our lips shall sound!

YE

The Sower.

W. COWPER.

VE sons of earth, prepare the plough,
Break up your fallow ground;

The sower is gone forth to sow,
And scatter blessings round.

The seed that finds a stony soil
Shoots forth a hasty blade;

But ill repays the sower's toil,

Soon wither'd, scorch'd, and dead.

The thorny ground is sure to balk
All hopes of harvest there;
We find a tall and sickly stalk,
But not the fruitful ear

The beaten path and highway side
Receive the trust in vain ;
The watchful birds the spoil divide,
And pick up all the grain.

But where the Lord of grace and
Has bless'd the happy field,
How plenteous is the golden store

power

The deep-wrought furrows yield!

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Father of mercies, we have need
Of Thy preparing grace ;

Let the same hand that gives the seed
Provide a fruitful place!

Hymn to the Seasons.

BISHOP HEBER.

WHEN Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laugh

ing soil,

When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil, When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood, In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns its Maker good.

The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the

shade;

The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy glade; The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way; The moon, and stars, their Maker's name in silent pomp display.

Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky,—
Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny?
No; let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be,
Thee, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour, honour

Thee.

The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer fade, The Autumn droop in Winter, the birds forsake the shade, The wind be lull'd, the sun and moon forget their old decree, But we in Nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to Thee.

The Leaf.

Eternal Source of every Joy.

E

REV. PHILIP DODDRIDGE, D.D.

TERNAL source of every joy,

Well may Thy praise our lips employ, While in Thy temple we appear,

Whose goodness crowns the circling year.

The flowery spring at Thy command
Embalms the air and paints the land;
The summer rays with vigour shine,
To raise the corn, and cheer the vine.

Thy hand in autumn richly pours
Through all our coasts redundant stores,
And winters, soften'd by Thy care,
No more a face of horror wear.

Seasons and months and weeks and days
Demand successive songs of praise;
Still be the cheerful homage paid
With opening light and evening shade!

Oh! may our more harmonious tongues
In worlds unknown pursue the songs;
And in those brighter courts adore,
Where days and years revolve no more!

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The Leaf.

Isaiah Ixiv. 6.

BISHOP HORNE.

EE the leaves around us falling

SEE

Dry and wither'd to the ground; Thus to thoughtless mortals calling, In a sad and solemn sound:

Sons of Adam, once in Eden,
Blighted when like us he fell,
Hear the lecture we are reading,
'Tis, alas! the truth we tell.

Virgins, much, too much, presuming
On your boasted white and red,
View us, late in beauty blooming,
Number'd now among the dead.
Griping misers, nightly waking,
See the end of all your care;
Fled on wings of our own making,
We have left our owners bare.

Sons of honour, fed on praises,
Flattering high in fancied worth,
Lo! the fickle air that raises,

Brings us down to parent earth.
Learned sophs in systems jaded,
Who for new ones daily call,
Cease, at length by us persuaded,
Every leaf must have its fall.

Youths, though yet no losses grieve you,
Gay in health and manly grace,
Let not cloudless skies deceive you,
Summer gives to autumn place.
Venerable sires, grown hoary,

Hither turn th' unwilling eye;
Think amidst your falling glory,
Autumn tells a winter nigh.

Yearly in our course returning,
Messengers of shortest stay,

Thus we preach this truth concerning
"Heaven and earth shall pass away."

Saints in Heaven.

On the Tree of Life eternal,

Man, let all thy hope be staid, Which alone, for ever vernal, Bears a leaf that shall not fade.

Saints in heaven.

Rev. vii. 13-17.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

HAT are these in bright array,

WHAT

This innumerable throng,

Round the altar, night and day,
Hymning one triumphant song?
"Worthy is the Lamb, once slain,
Blessing, honour, glory, power,
Wisdom, riches, to obtain,

New dominion every hour."

These through fiery trials trod;

These from great affliction came;

Now, before the throne of God,
Seal'd with His Almighty Name,
Clad in raiment pure and white,
Victor-palms in every hand,

Through their dear Redeemer's might,
More than conquerors they stand.

Hunger, thirst, disease, unknown,
On immortal fruits they feed;
Them the Lamb amidst the Throne
Shall to living fountains lead:

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