PRAISE FOR THE FOUNTAIN OPENED.

1 There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins ;
And sinners plung'd beneath that flood,]
Lose all their guilty stains.

2 The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there have I, as vile as he,
Wash'd all my sins away.

3 Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood
Shall never lose its pow'r,
Till all the ransom'd church of God
Be sav'd to sin no more.

4 E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die.

5 Then in a nobler, sweeter song
I'll sing thy pow'r to save,

When this poor lisping stamm'ring tongue Lies silent in the grave.

6 Lord, I believe thou hast prepar'd
(Unworthy tho' I be,)

For me a blood-bought free reward,
A golden harp for me!

7 'Tis strung, and tun'd for endless years, And form'd by pow'r divine,

To sound in God the Father's ears
No other name but thine.

COWPER.

PROSPECT OF DEATH.

1 How joyous will that moment be, When, first from mortal fetters freed, This dear abode we willing flee,

And soaring swift to bliss we speed! 2 So strange, so sweet, that change will come, With wond'ring joy our spirits rise In glory to that long-lost home

We oft have sought with weeping eyes. 3 The suff'rer, 'mid his dying strife,

Ne'er felt such balm his soul surprise, When he who call'd him first to life, From death's chill couch once bid him rise.

4 Such glowing life, or beauty bright, Ne'er on the blind fresh vision broke, When he who said let there be light! Again that word in mercy spoke.

5 'Tis still his voice that bids us rise, When death's dark shade hath o'er us pass'd;

It is not life but death that dies,

When the thick shroud is round us cast.

6 Though mortals weep a creature dead, Yet angels hail a brother born;

The body sinks to night's dark bed,
The spirit hails an endless morn.

ROBY.

GRAVE OF THE CHRISTIAN PASTOR.

1 There is a spot-a lovely spot,
Embosom'd in a valley's 'dell;
The eye of splendour marks it not,
Nor trav'llers of its beauties tell.

2 The hazel forms a green bow'r there;
Beneath, the grassy cov'ring lies;
And forest flowers surpassing fair,
Mingle their soft and lovely dies.

3 Morn decks the spot with many a gem,
And the first break of eastern ray
Lights up a spark in each of them
That seems to hail the op'ning day.

4 When first that beam of morning breaks,
The fancy here a smile may see,
Like that when first the saint awakes
At dawn of immortality.

5 The free birds love to seek the shade,

And here they sing their sweetest lays; Meet requiem!-He who there is laid Breath'd his last dying voice in praise. 6 And here the villager will stray, What time his daily work is done, When ev'ning sheds the western ray Of sweet departing summer sun.

7 On lovely lips his name is found, And simple hearts yet hold him dear; The PATRIARCH of the village round,— The PASTOR of the chapel near. 8 The holy cautions that he gave,― The pray'rs he breath'd-the tears he wept,

Yet linger here, though in his grave, Through many a year, the saint has slept. 9 And oft the villager has said,"OI remember, when a child, He placed his hand upon my head, "And bless'd me then, and sweetly smil'd.

10 Twas he that led me to my God,
"And taught me to obey his will:
"The holy path which he has trod,
"Oh! be it mine to follow still."

11 GRAVE OF THE RIGHTEOUS! surely there
The sweetest bloom of beauty is:
Oh! may I sleep in couch as fair,
And with a hope as bright as his!

EDMESTON

LOOKING AT THE CROSS.

1 In evil long I took delight,
Unaw'd by shame or fear,
Till a new object struck my sight,
And stopt my wild career.

2 I saw one hanging on a tree,
In agonies and blood,

Who fixed his languid eyes on me,
As near his cross I stood.

3 Sure never till my latest breath
Can I forget that look;

It seem'd to charge me with his death,
Tho' not a word he spoke.

4 My conscience felt and owned the guilt,
And plung'd me in despair:
I saw my sins his blood had spilt,
And help'd to nail him there.

5 Alas! I knew not what I did,
But now my tears are vain;

Where shall my trembling soul be hid?
For I the Lord have slain.

6 A second look he gave,
"I freely all forgive;

which said,

"This blood is for thy ransom paid,
"I die, that thou mayst live."

7 Thus while his death my sin displays
In all its blackest hue,

(Such is the mystery of grace,)
It seals my pardon too.

8 With pleasing grief and mournful joy
My spirit now is fill'd,

That I should such a life destroy,
Yet live by him I kill'd.

NEWTON.