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NEW YEAR'S HYMN.
He lives, who lives to God alone,
For other source than God is none,
To live to God is to requite
To make his precepts our delight,
But life, within a narrow ring
Is falsely named, and no such thing,
Can life in them deserve the name,
Who only live to prove For what poor toys they can disclaim
An endless life above?
Who trample order, and the day
Which God asserts his own, Dishonour with unhallowed play
And worship chance alone?
If scorn of God's commands, impressed
On word and deed, imply
With life that cannot die;
Such want it, and that want, uncured
Till man resigns his breath, Speaks him a criminal, assured
Of everlasting death.
Sad period to a pleasant course!
Yet so will God repay
And mercy cast away.
Cowper. VICTORY IN DEATH.
Away! thou dying saint, away!
Thy toils at length have reached a close,
Away to yonder realms of light,
Go, mix with them, and share their joy,
And may our happy portion be,
TO MY SOUL.
WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.
Be patient yet, niy soul, thou hast not long
To groan beneath accumulated wrong:
Soon, very soon, I trust, the galling yoke
That clogs thee now, for ever shall be broke.
It comes, thy freedom comes; from grief arise,
Prepare, exulting, for thy native skies;
Soon, very soon, this world's unholy dreams,
Its poor possessors, and their trifling schemes
Shall worthless seem to thee, as leaves embrowned
That blasts autumnal scatter o'er the ground.
And, hailed by beings pure, who know no care,
Farewell! for I have schooled my heart
Now I can bear to look on death,—
The faded brow, the pallid lip,
Proclaim what soon my fate will be;
And welcome is their tale of death,