Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams,
Or Winter rises in the blackening east,—

Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat.

Should Fate command me to the farthest verge
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,
Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames on the' Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me;
Since God is ever present, ever felt,

In the void waste, as in the city full;

And where He vital spreads, there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go
Where Universal Love smiles not around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns;
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression.—But I lose

Myself in Him, in light ineffable !

Come then, expressive Silence, muse His praise.

CHARLES WESLEY.

Born, 1708; Died, 1788.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF DR. BOYCE.

FATHER of harmony, farewell!

Farewell for a few fleeting years!

Translated from the mournful vale;
Jehovah's flaming ministers

Have borne thee to thy place above,
Where all is harmony and love.

Thy generous, good, and upright heart,
That sigh'd for a celestial lyre,
Was tuned on earth to bear a part

Symphonious with that warbling quire, Where Handel strikes the golden strings, And plausive angels clap their wings.

Handel, and all the tuneful train,

Who well employ'd their art divine, To' announce the great Messiah's reign, In joyful acclamations join,

And springing from their azure seat, With shouts their new-born brother meet.

Thy brow a radiant circle wears,

Thy hand a seraph's harp receives, And, singing with the morning stars, Thy soul in endless rapture lives, And hymns on the eternal throne Jehovah and His conquering Son.

PRAYER FOR A DYING CHILD.

WHEN Thou didst our Isaac give,

Him we trembled to receive;

Him we call'd not ours, but Thine;

Him we promised to resign.

Meekly we our vow repeat;
Nature shall to grace submit ;
Let him on the altar lie ;

Let the victim live, or die!

Yet Thou know'st what pangs of love

In a father's bosom move;

What the agony to part

Struggling in a mother's heart.

Sorely tempted and distress'd,
Can we make the fond request?
Dare we pray for a reprieve?
Need we ask that he may live?

God we absolutely trust,
Wise, and merciful, and just;
All Thy works to Thee are known,
All Thy blessed will be done.

If his life a snare would prove,
Rob us of Thy heavenly love,
Steal our hearts from God away,
Mercy will not let him stay.

If his life would matter raise
Of Thine everlasting praise,
More his Saviour glorify,
Mercy will not let him die.

YOUTH AND AGE.

WHEN young, and full of sanguine hope, And warm in my first love,

F

My spirit's loins I girded up,

And sought the things above, Swift on the wings of active zeal With Jesu's message flew, O'erjoy'd with all my heart and will My Master's work to do.

Freely where'er I would, I went
Through Wisdom's pleasant ways,
Happy to spend and to be spent
In minist'ring His grace:
I found no want of will or power,
In love's sweet task employ'd,
And put forth every day and hour
My utmost strength for God.

As strong, and glorying in my might,
I drew the two-edged sword,
Valiant against a troop to fight
The battles of the Lord;
I scorn'd the multitude to dread,
Rush'd on with full career,
And aim'd at each opposer's head,
And smote off many an ear.

But now, enervated by age,

I feel my fierceness gone,

And nature's powers no more engage

Το

prop the Saviour's throne:

My total impotence I see,

For help on Jesus call,

And stretch my feeble hands to Thee,

Who workest all in all.

Thy captive, Lord, myself I yield,
As purely passive clay;
Thy holy will be all fulfill'd,
Constraining mine to' obey :
My passions by Thy Spirit bind,
And, govern'd by Thy Word,
I'll suffer all the woes design'd
To make me like my Lord.

Wholly at Thy dispose I am,
No longer at my own,
All self-activity disclaim,

And move in God alone :

Transport, do what Thou wilt with me,

A few more evil days,

But bear me safe through all to see
My dear Redeemer's face.

EPITAPH ON MRS. WESLEY.

IN sure and certain hope to rise,
And claim her mansion in the skies,
A Christian here her flesh laid down,
The cross exchanging for a crown.

True daughter of affliction, she,

Inured to pain and misery,

Mourn'd a long night of griefs and fears,

A legal night of seventy years.

The Father then reveal'd His Son,

Him in the broken bread made known;