Old age, with all her dismal train,

Invades your golden years

With sighs, and groans, and raging pain, And death, that never spares.

What will ye do when light departs, And leaves your withering eyes Without one beam to cheer your hearts, From the superior skies?

How will you meet God's frowning brow,
Or stand before his seat,

While nature's old supporters bow,
Nor bear their tottering weight?

Can you expect your feeble arms
Shall make a strong defence,
When death, with terrible alarms,
Summons the prisoner hence?

The silver bands of nature burst,
And let the building fall;

The flesh goes down to mix with dust,
Its vile original.

Laden with guilt (a heavy load!)

Uncleans'd, and unforgiven,
The soul returns to an angry God,

To be shut out from heaven.

SUN, MOON, AND STARS, PRAISE YE THE LORD.

FAIREST of all the lights above,

Thou sun, whose beams adorn the spheres, And with unwearied swiftness move,

To form the circles of our years;

Praise the Creator of the skies,
That dress'd thine orb in golden rays;
Or may the sun forget to rise,
If he forget his Maker's praise.

Thou reigning beauty of the night,
Fair queen of silence, silver moon,
Whose gentle beams, and borrow'd light,
Are softer rivals of the noon;

Arise, and to that Sovereign Power,
Waxing and waning honours pay,
Who bade thee rule the dusky hour,
And half supply the absent day.

Ye twinkling stars, who gild the skies
When darkness has its curtains drawn,
Who keep your watch, with wakeful eyes,
When business, cares, and day are gone;

Proclaim the glories of your Lord,
Dispers'd thro' all the heavenly street,
Whose boundless treasures can afford
So rich a pavement for his feet.

Thou heaven of heavens, supremely bright,
Fair palace of the court divine,
Where, with inimitable light,

The Godhead condescends to shine.

Praise thou thy great Inhabitant,
Who scatters lovely beams of grace
On every angel, every saint,
Nor veils the lustre of his face.

O God of glory, God of love,
Thou art the sun that makes our days;
With all thy shining works above,
Let earth and dust attempt thy praise.

THE WELCOME MESSENGER.

LORD, when we see a saint of thine
Lie gasping out his breath,
With longing eyes, and looks divine,
Smiling and pleas'd in death;

How could we e'en contend to lay
Our limbs upon that bed!
We ask thine envoy to convey
Our spirits in his stead.

Our souls are rising on the wing,

To venture in his place,

For when grim Death has lost his sting, He has an angel's face.

Jesus, then purge my crimes away, 'Tis guilt creates my fears,

'Tis guilt gives death its fierce array, And all the arms it bears.

Oh! if my threatening sins were gone, And Death had lost his sting,

I could invite the angel on,

And chide his lazy wing.

Away these interposing days,
And let the lovers meet;
The angel has a cold embrace,
But kind, and soft, and sweet.

I'd leap at once my seventy years,
I'd rush into his arms,

And lose my breath, and all my cares,
Amidst those heavenly charms.

Joyful, I'd lay this body down,
And leave the lifeless clay,
Without a sigh, without a groan,
And stretch and soar away.

SINCERE PRAISE.

ALMIGHTY Maker, God! How wondrous is thy name! Thy glories how diffus'd abroad Through the creation's frame!

Nature in every dress

Her humble homage pays,

And finds a thousand ways to express
Thine undissembled praise.

In native white and red

The rose and lily stand,

And, free from pride, their beauties spread,

To show thy skilful hand.

The lark mounts up the sky,

With unambitious song,

And bears her Maker's praise on high,

Upon her artless tongue.