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"TO ABIDE IN THE FLESH IS MORE NEEDFUL."

I WILL take refuge in my God
From man, and sin, and woe.
Fain would I drop this mortal clod,
To know as angels know;
And love as angels love,

And be as angels pure.

It is all light, pure light above,-
Bliss unalloyed and sure.

But shall I shun the sacred fight
Which good maintains with ill?
No; strong in my Redeemer's might,
Be mine to wrestle still.

Here only, in this strife,

Can I his soldier be:

Here only spend or lose a life

For Him who died for me.

Nor would I too impatient pry

The awful veil within ;
Or scan the' appalling mystery

Of God-resisting sin.

Oh, let me be content

For Heaven's own light to stay.

The night, the night, is well-nigh spent:Ere long it will be day.

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HE THAT DWELLETH IN LOVE, DWELLETH IN GOD,

AND GOD IN HIM."

To love, where love is shewn to me,
With smile a smile to greet-
Where tempers, tastes, and thoughts agree,
In friendship's bonds to meet-

To light at other's torch the flame,
And burn, one common fire-
To list the chord, and strike the same
On a responsive wire-

This were not hard, 'twere but to own
The force of nature's might,
Who ever wakes a kindred tone,

Where harmonies unite.

But for the living torch to burn,
Tho' all around be chill-
Where kindly acts meet no return,
To feed love's fervours still—

To keep the heart in tune, despite
A war of jarring sounds—
Still to preserve the affections right,
And love, where hate abounds-

This, this is hard, for nature spurns
To render good for ill,

And hot the angry spirit burns,
Harsh rules the ungoverned will.

"Tis

grace alone can mould the heart This gentle power to prove'Tis grace alone can grace impart, And teach the soul to love.

O Thou, who art the Source and Spring,

Of our new nature's birth,

Love brought Thee down, that Thou might'st bring

Love to this wretched earth.

Light Thou my torch by Thine own flame;

So shall it ever glow,

A light to mark from whence it came,

Thro' all the fogs below.

Light Thou my torch, a living sign,
While thro' this world I rove,

A child of love, a child of Thine-
For Thou, my God, art Love!

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THE SOUTH WIND BLEW, AND WE CAME TO PUTEOLI."

FAIR sea! whose lines of rolling wave

Flash back the gladsome day,

And seem, as the broad beach they lave,
In murmurs soft to say,

Is there a wand'rer on my breast?

I'll bear him gently to his rest,

And soothe his cares away;

Here, where sweet flowers of thousand hues,
The welcome of their balm diffuse.'

Not thus,-not thus thine accents broke

On Paul's awaken'd ear,

When hoarse thy boiling waters spoke,
And mock'd the seaman's fear!
Thrice rose the sun, yet flung his light
Idly upon that triple night,

Wrought by thy wrestlings drear;
Whilst on thy fickle breast of foam,
Man found nor refuge nor a home!

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