Low though it be and humble. Lord of life,
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now
Fills my uprising soul. I mount, I fly

-

Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;
The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes,
And care, and pain, and sorrow, are no more.

YET once again, my Harp, yet once again,
One ditty more, and on the mountain ash
I will again suspend thee. I have felt

The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,
At even-tide, when all the winds were hush'd,
I woke to thee the melancholy song.

Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe,
I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks
Of frolic fancy to the line of truth;

Not unrepining, for my froward heart

Still turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow

Of spring-gales past-the woods and storied haunts

Of my not songless boyhood. Yet once more,

Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones,
My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink;
The good, the brave - he must not, shall not sink
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour
No precious dews of Aganippe's well,

Or Castaly, though from the morning cloud

I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse :

Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows,
Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent
Of Britain, my lov'd country; and with tears
Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe

Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm
And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd
Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too,
If ever I have lov'd, with faltering step,
To follow thee in the cold and starless night,
To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff;
And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud
Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd

Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds,
The dying soul's viaticum; if oft

Amid the carnage of the field I've sate

With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung

To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul,
With mercy and forgiveness visitant
Of Heaven sit thou upon my harp,
And give it feeling, which were else too cold
For argument so great, for theme so high.

How dimly on that morn the sun arose, 'Kerchieft in mists, and tearful, when

HYMN.

In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the splendours of the Deity.

I.

AWAKE, Sweet harp of Judah, wake,
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake;
We sing the Saviour of our race,

The Lamb, our shield, and hiding place.

II.

When God's right arm is bar'd for war,
And thunders clothe his cloudy car,

Where, where, oh where, shall man retire,
To escape the horrors of his ire?

III.

'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by;
God sees his Well-beloved's face,
And spares us in our hiding place.

IV.

Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen;
To him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.

V.

While yet we sojourn here below,

Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;

Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race,
We deeply need a hiding place.

VI.

will glide,

Yet courage-days and years
And we shall lay these clods aside;

Shall be baptiz'd in Jordan's flood,
And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood.

VII.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,

We through the Lamb shall be decreed ;
Shall meet the Father face to face,

And need no more a hiding place.

The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, by Henry, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, and singing it as he was used to do on such occasions.

A HYMN

FOR FAMILY WORSHIP..

I.

O LORD, another day is flown,

And we, a lonely band,

Are met once more before thy throne, To bless thy fostering hand.

II.

And wilt thou bend a listening ear,

To praises low as ours?

Thou wilt for Thou dost love to hear

The song which meekness pours.

III.

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles will deign, As we before thee pray;

For thou didst bless the infant train,

And we are less than they.

IV.

O let thy grace perform its part,

And let contention cease;

And shed abroad in every heart

Thine everlasting peace!