If thou of murmuring would'st be cured, Think what my love for thee endured, 'Tis I appoint thy daily lot, And I do all things well; Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot, In life my grace shall strength supply, At death thou still shalt find me nigh, Thus I, who once my wretched days In vain repining spent, Taught in my Saviour's school of grace, Have learn'd to be content. ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, That he our deadly forfeit should release, That glorious form, that light unsufferable, To sit, the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant-God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode ; Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? See, how from far, upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet: O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel-quire, From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. A RECEIPT FOR HAPPINESS. Anonymous. TRAVERSE the world, go fly from pole to pole, To certain death through different paths we run. See there a galley-slave to misery sold! Know, mortal! happiness ne'er dwelt below. REDEMPTION. Young. AND what is this? Survey the wondrous cure, Through means which speak its value infinite, My species up in arms! not one exempt! Its lowest round high planted on the skies, Its towering summit lost beyond the thought Will give thee leave,") my praise for ever flow; MY MOTHER. William Thomson. WITHIN a court, whose gloomy walls display'd Traces of old magnificence decay'd, Whose low-brow'd batter'd archway seem'd to sneer At th' impoverish'd groups whose homes were near, Who throng its rooms, and lift their voices loud; |