CHRIST DYING, RISING, AND REIGNING.

HE dies! the heavenly lover dies!
The tidings strike a doleful sound
On my poor heart-strings: deep he lies
In the cold caverns of the ground.

Come, saints, and drop a tear or two,
On the dear bosom of your God,
He shed a thousand drops for you,
A thousand drops of richer blood.

Here's love and grief beyond degree,
The Lord of glory dies for men!
But, lo! what sudden joys I see!
Jesus the dead revives again.

The rising God forsakes the tomb,
Up to his Father's court he flies;
Cherubic legions, guard him home,
And shout him welcome to the skies.

Break off your tears, ye saints, and tell
How high our great Deliverer reigns;
Sing how he spoil'd the hosts of hell,
And led the monster, death, in chains.

Say, "Live for ever, wondrous King!
Born to redeem, and strong to save!"
Then ask the monster, "Where's his sting?
And where's thy victory, boasting grave?"

THE GOD OF THUNDER.

O the immense, the amazing height,
The boundless grandeur of our God,
Who treads the worlds beneath his feet,
And sways the nations with his nod!

He speaks; and lo, all nature shakes,
Heaven's everlasting pillars bow;

He rends the clouds with hideous cracks,
And shoots his fiery arrows through.

Well, let the nations start and fly
At the blue lightning's horrid glare,
Atheists and emperors shrink and die,
When flame and noise torment the air.

Let noise and flame confound the skies,
And drown the spacious realms below,
Yet will we sing the Thunderer's praise,
And send our loud hosannas through.

Celestial King, thy blazing power
Kindles our hearts to flaming joys,
We shout to hear thy thunders roar,
And echo to our Father's voice.

Thus shall the God our Saviour come,
And lightnings round his chariot play;
Ye lightnings, fly to make him room;
Ye glorious storms, prepare his way!

AN ODE.

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

ATTEMPTED IN ENGLISH SAPPHIC.

WHEN the fierce north wind with his airy forces,
Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury,
And the red lightning, with a storm of hail, comes
Rushing amain down,

How the poor sailors stand amaz'd, and tremble! While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet, Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters

Quick to devour them.

Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder, (If things eternal may be like these earthly) Such the dire terror when the great archangel

Shakes the creation;

Tears the strong pillars of the vault of heaven,
Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes;
See the graves open, and the bones arising,
Flames all around 'em!

Hark the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches! Lively bright horror, and amazing anguish, [lies Stare though their eyelids, while the living worm Gnawing within them.

Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heartstrings,

And the smart twinges when the eye beholds the Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance Rolling afore him.

Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver, While devils push them to the pit, wide yawning, Hideous and gloomy to receive them headlong Down to the centre.

Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horrid

Doleful ideas) come, arise to Jesus,

How he sits Godlike! and the saints around him,

Thron'd, yet adoring!

may I sit there when he comes triumphant, Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory, While our hosannas all along the passage

Shout the Redeemer.

THE SONG OF ANGELS ABOVE.

EARTH has detain'd me prisoner long,
And I'm grown weary now:

My heart, my hand, my ear, my tongue,
There's nothing here for you.

Tir'd in my thoughts, I stretch me down,
And upward glance mine eyes.
Upward (my Father) to thy throne,
And to my native skies.

There the dear Man, my Saviour, sits,
The God, how bright he shines!
And scatters infinite delights

On all the happy minds.

Seraphs, with elevated strains,

Circle the throne around,

And move and charm the starry plains

With an immortal sound.

Jesus, the Lord, their harps employs,
Jesus, my love, they sing,

Jesus, the name of both our joys,

Sounds sweet from every string.