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My God, I love and I adore :
But souls that love would know thee more.
Wilt thou for ever hide, and stand
Behind the labours of thy hand ?
Thy hand unseen, sustains the poles ;
On which, this huge creation rolls :
The starry arch proclaims thy power ;
Thy pencil glows in every flower.
In thousand shapes and colours rise
Thy painted wonders to our eyes;
While beasts and birds with lab’ring throats,
Teach us a God in thousand notes.
The meanest pin in nature’s frame,
Marks out some letter of thy name.
Where sense can reach or fancy rove,
From hill to hill, from field to grove,
Across the waves, around the sky,
There's not a spot, or deep, or high,
Where the Creator has not trod,
And left the footsteps of a God.

Thou Maker of my vital frame,
Unveil thy face, pronounce thy name,
Shine to my sight, and let the ear
Which thou hast form’d, thy language hear.
Where is thy residence ? Oh! why
Dost thou avoid my searching eye,


My longing sense? Thou Great Unknown,
Say, do the clouds conceal thy throne ?
Divide, ye clouds, and let me see
The Power that gives me leave to be.

Or, art thou all diffused abroad
Through boundless space, a present God ?
Unseen, unheard, yet ever near!
What shall I do to find thee here?
Is there not some mysterious art
To feel thy presence at my heart?
To hear thy whispers soft and kind,
In holy silence of the mind ?
Then rest my thoughts; nor longer roam
In quest of joy, for Heaven 's at home.


SUNDAY MORNING. Walk to a village church, in the neighbourhood of Oundlo.


Sweet blows the breeze at early morn;
The dewdrop glistens on the thorn;
The lark his carol chaunts on high,
In notes of wildest minstrelsy;
And tuning sweet his morning lays,
Prompts me alike to notes of praise.

Praise be to thee, Almighty power,
Who watch'd me through the midnight hour;
While fresh from rest, I humbly seek
Thy blessings for another week.

Come, welcome Sabbath! day of rest, With soft composure fill my breast : The world's vain thoughts be far away; Let holy peace attend the day.

See, peeping through the elm-trees tall, The village church's ivy'd wall;

With windows narrow, long, and high ;
By time imbued with purple dye,
Through which, the twinkling sunbeams play,
And strike the wall with colour'd ray.

Slow wand'ring on, how sweet to hear
The chiming bells break on the ear;
And from the taper spire so neat
Their pleasing melody repeat.
Hark! to the simple echoing sound,
How soft it strikes the rising ground;
Or bolder now along the vale,
Swells richly on the increasing gale.

Hast’ning along I gain the yard,
And meet the rustic's kind regard,
Who, hat in hand, doth lowly greet,
And lead me to the stranger's seat.

Attentive, now, I pause to share
The pious pastor's morning care;
And while he feeds his sacred charge,
The feelings of my heart enlarge.
What comfort in each prayer we find;
Pardon renew'd, peace, hope combined !
At length, with Christian truths imprest,
Our passions hush’d, our cares at rest,
Trusting to Him, who died to save,
We fearless view the approaching grave.

'Tis done-and now the service o'er,
With pensive steps I seek the door,
And moving onwards, list’ning meet
The Sunday-school girls' pattering feet;
As hand in hand along the green
The length’ned train is smiling seen:
Beneath each arm, the Bible see,
(Blest guide to immortality,)
Careful done up in covers neat,
With book of prayer, companion meet.
How pleasing is the grateful sight,
Their russet gowns, and tippets white,

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