;

COME Jesus, and visit thy fold,
Where thy sheep are united in love:
Our Shepherd we long to behold;
Dear Jesus, descend from above.
Thy presence, thou Shepherd divine,
Will comfort the sorrowful breast;
On thy bosom we wish to recline
'Tis there that the weary find rest.
Thy presence illumines the night,
And frightens the lion away;
Who prowls round thy fold with delight,
And is eager to make us his prey.
Come then, with thy fulness of grace,
And feed and defend us while here;
And make this the place of thy rest,
That thy flock may have nothing to fear.
We pant our dear Shepherd to see,
Whose mercy to us was so great;
How can we be happy from thee?
Thy love we can never forget.
To thee do we lift up our voice,
Thou Shepherd of Israel divine,
Enable thy fold to rejoice,

And say to each soul," I am thine."
Wallingford.

I. T. D.

THE

CHRISTIAN's THANKSGIVING On a Lord's-day Evening.

THANKS to thy name, thou God of grace,
Thou matchless Lover of our race,
For every boon thy love imparts,
To renovate and cheer our hearts.
Thanks to thy name for days of rest,
For Sabbath-days, of days the best;
And every mean thy love employs
To heighten and exalt our joys.
Thanks to thy name for thy bless'd word,
That transcript of my dearest Lord,
In which I see, as in a glass,"
The beamings of a Saviour's face.
Thanks for the Spirit, who indites,
And seals the lessons which he writes:
Great God! his influence impart,
To seal those lessons on my heart.
Thanks for thy well-beloved Son,
Who left his high and holy throne,
On earth to sojourn, bleed, and die,
To bring a wretched outcast nigh.
Thanks for thy Sabbaths, dearest Lord,
Which such delight and joy afford:
Oh, may they prove, while here I roam,
The pledge of brighter joys to come!
Then in that world of perfect bliss,
Where pleasure in perfection is,

I shall behold thee face to face,
And sing the triumphs of thy grace.
London.
E. D.

THE

HEATHEN COMMISERATED.

BEAR me, imagination's wing,
And land me on some distant shore,
Where tuneful warblers never sing,
But serpents hiss, and lions roar.
There let my weeping eyes survey
The human form by sin debas'd;
Where Superstition holds her sway,
And Ignorance is never chas'd.
Then waft me back to Britain's shore,
Where gospel-light salutes my eyes:
There I'll recount my mercies o'er,
And feel my sympathies arise.

Impress'd with such a gloomy scene,
My prayers shall wake the morning light;
Shall fill the hours that intervene,
And break the solitude of night.

My head, my heart, my hand shall join
To send the light of life abroad;
And aid their efforts who combine
To spread "the knowledge of the Lord."
E. D.

London.