Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, Should Fate command me to the farthest verge In the void waste, as in the city full; And where He vital spreads, there must be joy. 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; Have borne thee to thy place above, Thy generous, good, and upright heart, 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; 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, God we absolutely trust, If his life a snare would prove, If his life would matter raise 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 As strong, and glorying in my might, 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, Wholly at Thy dispose I am, 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 EPITAPH ON MRS. WESLEY. IN sure and certain hope to rise, 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; |