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May he celestial joy rehearse,

And thought to thought with me converse; Or in my stead, all the night long,

Sing to my God a grateful song.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heav'nly host; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.


Midnight Hymn.

My God, now I from sleep awake,
The sole possession of me take;
From midnight terrors me secure,

And guard my heart from thoughts impure.

Blest angels! while we silent lie,
You hallelujahs sing on high;
You joyful hymn the Ever-blest
Before the throne, and never rest.

I with your choir celestial join,
In offering up a hymn divine:
With you in heav'n I hope to dwell,
And bid the night and world farewell.

My soul, when I shake off this dust,
Lord, in thy arms I will intrust:
Oh! make me thy peculiar care,
Some mansion for my soul prepare.

Give me a place at thy saints' feet,
Or some fall'n angel's vacant seat:
I'll strive to sing as loud as they,
Who sit above in brighter day.

O may I always ready stand,
With my lamp burning in my hand;
May I in sight of heav'n rejoice,
Whene'er I hear the Bridegroom's voice.

All praise to Thee, in light array'd,
Who light thy dwelling-place hast made;
A boundless ocean of bright beams
From thy all-glorious Godhead streams.

The sun, in its meridian height,
Is very darkness in thy sight:
My soul O lighten and inflame

With thought and love of thy great name!

Blest Jesu! thou, on heav'n intent,
Whole nights hast in devotion spent ;
But I, frail creature, soon am tir'd,
And all my zeal is soon expir'd.

My soul! how canst thou weary grow
Of antedating bliss below,

In sacred hymns and heav'nly love,
Which will eternal be above?

Shine on me, Lord; new life impart ;
Fresh ardours kindle in my heart:
One ray of thy all-quick'ning light
Dispels the sloth and clouds of night!

Lord, lest the tempter me surprise,
Watch over thine own sacrifice;
All loose, all idle thoughts cast out,
And make my very dreams devout.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heav'nly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.


Morning in the Country.

To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing, startle the dull night
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappl'd dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:

While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters th' rear of darkness thin;
And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before :

Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill :
Sometime walking, not unseen,

By hedgerow elms or hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate,

Where the great sun begins his state;
Rob'd in flames and amber bright,
The clouds in thousand liv'ries dight:
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land;
And the milkmaid singeth blithe;
And the mower whets his scythe;
And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale,
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the landscape round it measures,-
Russet lawns and fallows grey,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains, on whose barren breast
The lab'ring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim, with daisies pied;
Shallows, brooks, and rivers wide:
Towers and battlements it sees,
Bosom'd high in tufted trees;
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighb'ring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks;


Where Corydon and Thirsis met,
Or at their sav'ry dinner set,

Of herbs and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses:
And then in haste her bow'r she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
Or, if the earlier season lead,

To the tann'd haycock in the mead.



WHEN the sun begins to fling

His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine or monumental oak;

Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert, by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye:
While the bee, with honied thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing;
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;

And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream

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