So many glorious gleams of light,
And gentle ardours from above,
Have made me sit, like seraph bright,
Some moments on a throne of love :
Oh, what is virtue? Why had I,
Who am so low, a taste so high?

Ere long, when Sovereign Wisdom wills,
My soul an unknown path shall tread,
And strangely leave what strangely fills
This frame, and waft me to the dead.
Oh, what is death? 'Tis life's last shore;
Where vanities are vain no more;
Where all pursuits their good obtain ;
Where life is all retouch'd again;

Where, in their bright results, shall rise
Thoughts, virtues, friendships, loves, and joys.

REV. J. GAMBOLD. * 1710-1771.

It will be observed that this author lived at a later date than any other whose works have been introduced here; yet as he was not far removed from several of them, I could not resolve to omit this beautiful piece. The author's birth dates with the death of Bishop Ken.

ANTICIPATION.

OW it belongs not to my care
Whether I die or live;

To love and serve Thee is my share,
And Thou the grace must give.

Christ leads me through no darker rooms
Than He went through before:

He that unto God's kingdom comes,

Must enter by this Door.

Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet

Thy blessed face to see,

For if Thy work on earth be sweet,

What will Thy glory be?

Then I shall end my sad complaints,

And weary, sinful days,

And join with those triumphant saints
That sing Jehovah's praise.

My knowledge of that life is small,

The eye of faith is dim:

But it's enough that Christ knows all,

And I shall be with Him.

RICHARD BAXTER.* 1681.

*Five out of eight stanzas from Sir Roundell Palmer's

"Book of Praise."

WHOM HAVE I IN HEAVEN BUT THEE?

"Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee.”—PSALM lxxiii. 25.

LOVE, and have some cause to love, the earth:

She is my Maker's creature, therefore
good;

She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse, she gives me food:
But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee?
O what's my mother or my nurse to me?

I love her air: her dainty sweets refresh

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me : Her shrill-mouth'd choir sustain me with their flesh, And with their polyphonian notes delight me : But what's the air, or all the sweets that she Can bless my soul withal, compared to Thee?

I love the sea: she is my fellow-creature ;

My careful purveyor; she provides me store; She walls me round; she makes my diet greater; She wafts my treasures from a foreign shore: But, Lord of oceans! when compared to Thee, What is the ocean or her wealth to me?

Without Thy presence, earth gives no refection; Without Thy presence, sea affords no treasure; Without Thy presence, air's a rank infection; Without Thy presence, heaven itself's no pleasure: If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in Thee,

What's earth, or sky, or sea, or air to me?

The highest honours that the world can boast
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are, at most,
But dying sparkles of Thy living fire :
The proudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nightly glowworms, if compared to Thee.

Without Thy presence, wealth are bags of cares;
Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet, sadness;
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasure's but pain, and mirth but pleasing
madness:

Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have their being when compared with Thee. In having all things, and not Thee, what have I ?

Not having Thee, what have my labours got? Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I? And having Thee alone, what have I not?

I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of Thee. FRANCIS QUArles.

ALL THINGS ARE VAIN.

LTHOUGH the purple morning brags in brightness of the sun,

As though he had of chasèd night a glorious conquest won,

The time by day gives place again to force of drowsy night,

And every creature is constrain'd to change his lusty plight.

Of pleasure all that here we taste

We feel the contrary at last.

In spring, the pleasant Zephyrus hath fruitful earth inspired,

And nature hath each bush, each branch, with blossoms brave attired:

Yet fruits and flowers, as buds and blooms, full quickly wither'd be,

When stormy winter comes to kill the summer's jollity.

By time are got, by time are lost,

All things wherein we pleasure most.