Then let me love my Bible more,

And take a fresh delight

By day to read these wonders o'er,

And meditate by night.

WATTS.

THE SABBATH.

ORD of the Sabbath, hear our vows,
On this thy day, in this thine house;
And own as grateful sacrifice,

The songs which from the desert rise.

Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord, we love;
But there's a nobler rest above;

To that our labouring souls aspire,
With ardent hope and strong desire.

No more fatigue, no more distress,
Nor sin, nor death, shall reach the place,
No tears shall mingle with the songs
That warble from immortal tongues.

No rude alarms of raging foes-
No cares to break the long repose-
No midnight shade, no clouded sun-
But sacred, high, eternal noon;

O long expected day, begin;

Dawn on these realms of woe and sin;
Fain would we leave this weary road,
And sleep in death to rest with God.

DODDRIDGE.

Sabbath Morning.

363

SABBATH MORNING.

EAR is the hallowed morn to me,

When village bells awake the day:

And, by their sacred minstrelsy,

Call me from earthly cares away.

And dear to me the winged hour,

Spent in thy hallowed courts, O Lord!
To feel devotion's soothing power,

And catch the Manna of thy word.

And dear to me the loud Amen,
Which echoes through the blest abode,
Which swells and sinks, and swells again,
Dies on the walls, but lives to God.

And dear the rustic harmony,

Sung with the pomp of village art;
That holy, heavenly melody,

The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often prayed,

And still the anxious tear would fall;

But on thy sacred altar laid,

The fire descends and dries them all.

Oft when the world, with iron hands,

Has bound me in its six days' chain,
This bursts them like the strong man's bands,

And lets my spirit loose again.

Then dear to me the Sabbath morn,

The village bells, the shepherd's voice;

These oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbath, sing the charms;
Ours be the prophet's car of fire,
That bears us to a Father's arms.

CUNNINGHAM.

SABBATH EVENING.

S there a time when moments flow,
More lovelily than all beside?
It is, of all the times below,

A Sabbath eve in summer tide.

O then the setting sun smiles fair,

And all below, and all above,

The different forms of nature wear,

One universal garb of love.

And then the peace that Jesus beams,
The life of grace, the death of sin,
With nature's placid woods and streams,
Is peace without, and peace within :

Delightful scene! a world at rest,
A God all love, no grief nor fear;
A heavenly hope, a peaceful breast,
A smile unsullied by a tear.

If heaven be ever felt below,
A scene so heavenly sure as this,

The Time for Prayer.

May cause a heart on earth to know
Some foretaste of celestial bliss.

Delightful hour! how soon will night
Spread her dark mantle o'er thy reign;
And morrow's quick returning light
Must call us to the world again.

Yet will there dawn at last the day,
A SUN that never sets shall rise;
Night will not vail his ceaseless ray,
The heavenly Sabbath never dies.

365

EDMESTON.

THE TIME FOR PRAYER.

O, when the morning shineth,

Go, when the noon is bright;
Go, when the eve declineth,

Go, in the hush of night;
Go, with pure mind and feeling,
Cast earthly thought away;
And in thy chamber kneeling,
Do thou in secret pray.

Remember all who love thee,
All who are loved by thee,
Pray too, for those who hate thee,
If any such there be ;
Then for thyself in meekness,
A blessing humbly claim;
And link with each petition

Thy great Redeemer's name.

Or, if 'tis e'er denied thee

In solitude to pray,

Should holy thoughts come o'er thee,
When friends are round thy way;
E'en then thy silent breathing

Thy spirit sends above,

Will reach his throne of glory,

Who is Mercy, Truth, and Love.

Oh, not a joy nor blessing

With this can we compare,

The power that He has given us
To pour our souls in prayer!
Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness,
Before his footsteps fall,
Remember in thy gladness,

His love who gave thee all.

ANON.

THE HOUR FOR PRAYER.

HILD amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;

Mother, with thine earnest eye

Ever following silently;

Father, by the breeze of eve,
Called thy harvest work to leave;
Pray! ere yet the dark hours be;
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone

Of a voice from this world gone ;