THE RIGHTEOUS BLESSED. How bles'd is he who ne'er consents By ill advice to walk, Nor stands in sinners' ways, nor sits But makes the perfect law of God Like some fair tree, which fed by streams,. Ungodly men and their attempts For God approves the just man's ways; But all the paths which sinners tread, TRUE RESIGNATION, On had I the wings of a dove, I'd make my escape and be gone; I'd mix with the spicits above, Who encompass you heavenly throue: I'd fly from all labour and toil, To the place where the weary have rest; How happy are they who no more They have left all their conflicts below, They are far from all danger and fear, While remembrance enhances their joys: As the storm, when escap'd, will endear The retreat that the haven supplies. Around that magnificent throne, Where the Lamb all his glory displays; United for ever in one, His people are singing bis praise. How holy, how happy are they! No tongue can express their delight! My soul, now unwilling to stay. Prepares for her heavenly flight, But why do I wish to be gone? Do I want from the danger to flee? And shall I do nothing for one, Who was once such a suff'rer for me? Oh Lord! let me think of the day When thou wast" rejected of men," And put the base wish far away, And never be fearful again. Nor less my perverseness forgive, Thy servant is willing to live, And his exile prefers to his home: Oh Lord! what a creature am I, Sure nothing can heighten my guilt: Forgive me, forgive me I cry, And make me whatever thou wilt. WE ARE SEVEN. A simple child, dear brother Jem, I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl, That clustered round her head. She had a rustic woodland air, Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many?-seven in all,-she said, And where are they? I pray you tell, Two of us in the Church-yard lie, And in the Church. yard cottage, I You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet you are seven, I pray you tell, Then did the little maid reply, You run about, my little maid, If two are in the Church-yard laid, Their graves are green, they may be seen, The little maid replied, Twelve steps or more, from my mother's door, My stockings there I often knit, And often after sunset, Sir, I take my little porringer, The first that died, was little Jane, So in the Church-yard, she was laid, My brother John and I. And when the ground was white with snow 1 And I could run and slide; My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side. |