1 GLORY to God, the Father's name,
To Jesus, who for sinners dy'd;
The Holy Spirit claims the same,
By whom our souls are sanctify'd.
2 Thy praise was sung when time began
By angels, through the starry spheres ;
And shall, as now, be sung by man
Through vast eternity's long years.
YE saints on earth, ascribe, with heav'n's high host,
Glory and honour to the One in Three;
TO GOD the FATHER, SON, and HOLY GHOST,
As was, and is, and evermore shall be.
THE KITE; OR, PRIDE MUST HAVE A FALL.
My waking dreams are best conceal'd,
Much folly, little good they yield;
But now and then I gain, when sleeping,
A friendly hint that's worth the keeping:
Lately I dreamt of one who cry'd,
"Beware of self, beware of pride;
"When you are prone to build a Babel
"Recall to mind this little fable."
ONCE on a time a paper kite
Was mounted to a wondrous height,
Where, giddy with its elevation,
It thus express'd self-admiration :
"See how yon crowds of gazing people
"Admire my flight above the steeple;
"How would they wonder if they knew
"All that a kite like me can do?
"Were I but free, I'd take a flight,
"And pierce the clouds beyond their sight,
But, ah! like a poor pris'ner bound,
My string confines me near the ground: "I'd brave the eagle's tow'ring wing,
Might I but fly without a string."
It tugg'd and pull'd, while thus it spoke, To break the string ;--at last it broke. Depriv'd at once of all its stay,
In vain it try'd to soar away;
Unable its own weight to bear,
It flutter'd downward through the air;
Unable its own course to guide,
The winds soon plung'd it in the tide.
Ah! foolish kite, thou hadst no wing,
How couldst thou fly without a string!
My heart reply'd, "O Lord, I see
"How much this kite resembles me!
"Forgetful that by thee I stand,
Impatient of thy ruling hand;
"How oft I've wish'd to break the lines
Thy wisdom for my lot assigns!
"How oft indulg'd a vain desire
"For something more, or something high'r!
And, but for grace and love divine,
"A fall thus dreadful had been mine."
A Thought on the Sea Shore.
1 IN ev'ry object here I see
Something, O Lord, that leads to thee.
Firm as the rocks thy promise stands,
Thy mercies countless as the sands,
Thy love a sea immensely wide,
Thy grace an ever-flowing tide.
2 In ev'ry object here I see
Something, my heart, that points at thee. Hard as the rocks that bound the strand, Unfruitful as the barren sand,
Deep and deceitful as the ocean,
And, like the tides, in constant motion.
SOME author (no great matter who,
Provided what he says be true)
Relates he saw, with hostile rage,
A spider and a toad engage:
For though with poison both are stor'd,
Each by the other is abhorr'd;
It seems as if their common venom
Provok'd an enmity between 'em..
Implacable, malicious, cruel,
Like modern hero in a duel,
The spider darted on his foe,
Infixing death at ev'ry blow.
The toad, by ready instinct taught,
An antidote, when wounded, sought
From the herb Plantane, growing near,
Well known to toads its virtues rare,
The spider's poison to repel;
It cropp'd the leaf, and soon was well.
This remedy it often try'd,
And all the spider's rage defy'd.
The person who the contest view'd,
While yet the battle doubtful stood,
Remov'd the healing plant away-
And thus the spider gain'd the day :
For when the toad return'd once more
Wounded, as it had done before,
To seek relief, and found it not,
It swell'd and dy'd upon the spot.
In ev'ry circumstance but one
(Could that hold too, I were undone)
No glass can represent my face
More justly than this tale my case.
The toad's an emblem of my heart,
And Satan acts the spider's part.
Envenom'd by his poison, I
Am often at the point to die;
But he who hung upon the tree,
From guilt and woe to set me free,
Is like the Plantane leaf to me.
To him my wounded soul repairs,
He knows my pain, and hears my prayers;
From him I virtue draw by faith,
Which saves me from the jaws of death:
From him fresh life and strength I gain,
And Satan spends his rage
in vain.
No secret arts or open force,
Can rob me of this sure resource,
Though banish'd to some distant land,
My med'cine would be still at hand;
Though foolish men its worth deny,
Experience gives them all the lie;
Though Deists and Socinians join,
Jesus still lives, and still is mine.
'Tis here the happy diff'rence lies,
My Saviour reigns above the skies,
Yet to my soul is always near,
For he is God, and ev'ry where.
His blood a sov'reign balm is found
For ev'ry grief, and ev'ry wound;
And sooner all the hills shall flee,
And hide themselves beneath the sea;
Or ocean, starting from its bed,
Rush o'er the cloud-topt mountain's head;
The sun, exhausted of its light,
Become the source of endless night;
And ruin spread from pole to pole;
Than Jesus fail the tempted soul.
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