When the great water-floods prevail,
Leave not my trembling heart to fail!

Friend of the friendless and the faint!
Where should I lodge my deep complaint?
Where but with thee, whose open door
Invites the helpless and the poor?

Did ever mourner plead with thee,
And thou refuse that mourner's plea?
Does not that word still fix'd remain,
That none shall seek thy face in vain ?

That were a grief I could not bear,
Didst thou not hear and answer pray'r;
But a pray'r-hearing, answ'ring God,
Supports me under ev'ry load.

Fair is the lot that's cast for me;
I have an advocate with thee;
They, whom the world caresses most,
Have no such privilege to boast.

Poor though I am, despis'd, forgot,
Yet God, my God, forgets me not;
And he is safe, and must succeed,
For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead.

COWPER.

THE LAST DAY.

EVEN thus amid thy pride and luxury,
Oh Earth! shall that last coming burst on thee,
That secret coming of the Son of Man;
When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine,
Irradiate with his bright advancing sign;

When that great Husbandman shall wave his fan,

Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp away: Still to the noontide of that nightless day,

Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. Along the busy mart and crowded street, The buyer and the seller still shall meet,

And marriage feasts begin their jocund strain. Still to the pouring out the cup of woe; Till earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro, And mountains molten by his burning feet, And heav'n his presence own, all red with furnace

heat.

Almighty! trembling like a timid child,

I hear thy awful voice-alarm'd-afraidI see the flashes of thy light'ning wild,

And in the very grave would hide my head. Lord! what is man? up to the sun he fliesOr feebly wanders through earth's vale of dust: There is he lost 'midst heav'n's high mysteries, And here in error and in darkness lost : Beneath the storm-clouds, on life's raging sea, Like a poor sailor-by the tempest tost, Oh! who shall then survive?

Oh! who shall stand and live?
When all that hath been is no more;

When for the round earth hung in air,
With all its constellations fair,

In the sky's azure canopy :

When for the breathing earth, and sparkling sea,
Is but a fiery deluge without shore,
Heaving along th' abyss profound and dark,
A fiery deluge and without an ark.
Lord of all power, when thou art there alone
On thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne,
That in its high meridian noon
Need not the perish'd sun nor moon :
When thou art there in thy presiding state,

Wide scepter'd monarch o'er the realm of doom : When from the sea-depths, from earth's darkest

womb,

The dead of all the ages round thee wait;
And when the tribes of wickedness are strewn,

Like forest leaves in the autumn of thine ire: Faithful and true! thou still shalt save thine own!

The saints shall dwell with unharming fire; Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm. Even safe as we, by this still Fountain's side. So shall the Church, thy bright and mystic bride

Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm. Yes, mid yon angry and destroying signs, O'er us the rainbow of thy mercy shines, We hall, we bless the covenant of its beam, Almighty to avenge, almightiest to redeem!

MILMAN!

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL O'ER EGYPT'S

DARK SEA!

SOUND the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free. Sing, for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots and horsemen, all splendid and

brave,

How vain was their boasting! -The Lord hath

but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the

wave.

ound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; hovah has triumph'd,-his people are free. raise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord, lis word was our arrow, his breath was our

Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of

glory,

And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free.

MOORE.

THE EVENING CLOUD.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson ting'd its braided snow,
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on,
O'er the still radiance of the lake below;
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow,
E'en in its very motion there was rest;
While ev'ry breath of eve that chanc'd to blow,
Wafted the trav'ller to the beauteous west.

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is giv'n,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heav'n.
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

WILSON.

THE GRAVE.

THERE is a calm for those who weep:
A rest for weary pilgrims found:
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the wintry sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose,

Than summer ev'ning's latest sigh,

That shuts the rose,

I long to lay this painful head,
And aching heart, beneath the soil;
To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil.

The grave, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide;
O listen! I will speak no more :-
Be silent, pride!

Art thou a mourner? hast thou known
The joy of innocent delights,

Endearing days for ever flown,
And tranquil nights?

O live! and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past:
Rely on Heav'n's unchanging will
For peace at last.

Tho' long of winds and waves the sport,
Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam;
Live! thou shalt reach a shelt'ring port,

A quiet home.

Seek the true treasure, seldom found,
Of pow'r the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound
With heav'nly balm.

Whate'er thy lot-where'er thou be-
Confess thy folly-kiss the rod;
And in thy chast'ning sorrows see
The hand of God.

A bruised reed he will not break;
Afflictions all his children feel;