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But when he comes nearer to finish his race, Like a fine setting sun he looks richer in

grace, And gives a sure hope at the end of his days

Of rising in brighter array.


Some Copies of the following Hymn having got abroad al

ready into several hands, the Author has been persuaded to permit it to appear in public, at the end of these SONGS FOR CHILDREN.


HUSH! my dear, lie still and slumber,

Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heav'nly blessings without number

Gently falling on thy head.
Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment,

House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care and payment,

All thy wants are well supply'd.


How much better thou'rt attended

Than the Son of God could be; When from heaven he descended,

And became a child like thee! Soft and easy is thy cradle;

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When his birth-place was a stable,

And his softest bed was hay. Blessed babe! what glorious features,

Spotless, fair, divinely bright! Must he dwell with brutal creatures?

How could angels bear the sight!
Was there nothing but a manger

Cursed sinners could afford,
To receive the heav'nly stranger?

Did they thus affront their Lord?
Soft, my child! I did not chide thee,

Tho' my song might sound too hard; ?Tis thy nurse* that sits beside thee,

And her arms shall be thy guard. Yet to read the shameful story,

How the Jews abus'd their King, How they serv'd the Lord of Glory,

Makes me angry while I sing. * Here may be used the words brother, sister, friend, &c.

See the kinder shepherds round him,

Telling wonders from the sky! Where they sought him, there they found

him, With his virgin mother by. See the lovely babe a-dressing,

Lovely infant how he smil'd! When he wept, the mother's blessing

Sooth’d and hush'd the holy child. Lo! he slumbers in his manger,

Where the horned oxen fed ;Peace, my darling, here's no danger,

Here's no ox a-near thy bed. 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,

Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans and endless crying,

That thy blest Redeemer came. May'st thou live to know and fear him,

Trust and love him, all thy days; Then


dwell for ever near him, See his face, and sing his praise! I could give thee thousand kisses,

Hoping what I most desire; Not a mother's fondest wishes

Can to greater joys aspire.

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Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;

O! give relief, and heav'n will bless your store. These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon house erected on the rising ground,

With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For Plenty there a residence has found,

And Grandeur a magnificent abode. Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor;

Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread, A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,

To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

O! take me to your hospitable dome;

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold;

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,

For I am poor, and miserably old. Should I reveal the sources of my grief,

If soft Humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withold the kind relief,

And tears of pity would not be represt.
Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?

'Tis heaven has brought me to the state you see; And your condition may be soon like mine,

The child of Sorrow and of Misery. A little farm was my paternal lot;

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hail'd the morn: But, ah! Oppression forc'd me from my cot,

My cattle dy'd, and blighted was my corn. My daughter, once the comfort of my age,

Lur'd by a villain from ner native home, Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,

And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,

Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, lingʻring fell, a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ;

0! give relief, and heav'n will bless your store.

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