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In the eternal essence, to the prayer

Sincere should come, should come as soon as asked,
Proceeding from the Father and the Son,
To give faith and repentance, such as God
Accepts; to open the intellectual eyes,
Blinded by sin; to bend the stubborn will,
Perversely to the side of wrong inclined,
To God and his commandments just and good;
The wild rebellious passions to subdue,

And bring them back to harmony with heaven;
To purify the conscience, and to lead
The mind into all truth, and to adorn
With every holy ornament of grace,
And sanctify the whole renewed soul,
Which henceforth might no more fall totally,
But persevere, though erring oft, amidst
The mists of time, in piety to God,
And sacred works of charity to men:

That he who thus believed, and practised thus,
Should have his sins forgiven, however vile;
Should be sustained at midday, morn and even,
By God's omnipotent, eternal grace;

And in the evil hour of sore disease,

Temptation, persecution, war, and death,
Beneath the shadow of the Almighty's wings
Should sit unhurt, and at the judgment-day
Should share the resurrection of the just,
And reign with Christ in bliss for evermore :
That all, however named, however great,
Who could not thus believe, nor practise thus,
But in their sins impenitent remained,
Should in perpetual fear and terror live;
Should die unpardoned, unredeemed, unsaved;
And at the hour of doom should be cast out
To utter darkness in the night of hell,
By mercy and by God abandoned, there
To reap the harvest of eternal woe.

PRIDE.

PRIDE, self-adoring pride, was primal cause
Of all sin past, all pain, all woe to come.
Unconquerable pride! first, eldest sin,

Great fountain-head of evil! highest source,
Whence flowed rebellion 'gainst the Omnipotent,-
Whence hate of man to man, and all else ill.
Pride at the bottom of the human heart
Lay, and gave root and nourishment to all
That grew above. Great ancestor of vice!
Hate, unbelief, and blasphemy of God;
Envy and slander; malice and revenge;
And murder, and deceit, and every birth
Of hateful sort, was progeny of pride.
It was the ever-moving, acting force,
The constant aim, and the most thirsty wish
Of every sinner unrenewed, to be
A god; in purple or in rags, to have
Himself adored. Whatever shape or form
His actions took, whatever phrase he threw
About his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life,
To be the highest was the inward cause

Of all; the purpose of the heart to be

Set up, admired, obeyed. But who would bow
The knee to one who served, and was dependent?
Hence man's perpetual struggle, night and day,
To prove he was his own proprietor,

And independent of his God; that what

He had might be esteemed his own, and praised
As such. He laboured still, and tried to stand
Alone, unpropped, to be obliged to none;
And, in the madness of his pride, he bade
His God farewell, and turned away to be
A god himself; resolving to rely,
Whatever came, upon his own right hand.

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O LOVE-DESTROYING, cursed Bigotry !

Cursed in heaven, but cursed more in hell,
Where millions curse thee, and must ever curse.

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The infidel who turned his impious ear
Against the walls of Zion, on the rock
Of ages built, and higher than the clouds,
Sinned and received his due reward; but she
Within her walls sinned more. Of ignorance
Begot, her daughter, Persecution, walked
The earth from age to age, and drank the blood
Of God's peculiar children, and was drunk,-
And in her drunkenness dreamed of doing good.
The supplicating hand of innocence,

That made the tiger mild, and in his wrath
The lion pause, the groans of suffering most
Severe, were nought to her: she laughed at groans:
No music pleased her more, and no repast

So sweet to her as blood of men redeemed

By blood of Christ. Ambition's self, though mad,
And nursed on human gore, with her compared,
Was merciful. Nor did she always rage:

She had some hours of meditation set
Apart, wherein she to her study went,

The Inquisition, model most complete

Of perfect wickedness, where deeds are done,

Deeds! let them ne'er be named,-and sat and planned

Deliberately, and with most musing pains,

How, to extremest thrill of agony,

The flesh, and blood, and souls of holy men,

Her victims, might be wrought; and when she saw

New tortures of her labouring fancy born,

She leaped for joy, and made great haste to try

Their force-well pleased to hear a deeper groan.

HANNAH MORE.

THIS amiable writer was born in 1745, at Stapleton, in Gloucestershire, where her father kept a school. Her first publication was a pastoral drama; and she produced soon after two or three plays, which were acted in London. However, she soon ceased to write for the theatre, and devoted her talents to higher purposes. Her poetry is of a high order, and her prose works, on religious subjects and on education, are deservedly popular. She died in 1833.

REFLECTIONS OF KING HEZEKIAH IN HIS
SICKNESS.

"Set thine house in order, for thou shalt die."-Isaiah xxxviii.

WHAT! and no more? Is this, my soul, said I,
My whole of being? Must I surely die?

Be robbed at once of health, of strength, of time,
Of youth's fair promise, and of pleasure's prime?
Shall I no more behold the face of morn,
The cheerful daylight, and the spring's return?
Must I the festive bower, the banquet leave,
For the dull chambers of the darksome grave?
Have I considered what it is to die?

In native dust, with kindred worms to lie;
To sleep in cheerless, cold neglect! to rot!
My body loathed, my very name forgot!
Not one of all those parasites, who bend
The supple knee, their monarch to attend!
What, not one friend? No: not a hireling slave
Shall hail great Hezekiah in the grave.
Where's he who falsely claimed the name of Great,
Whose eye was terror, and whose frown was fate,
Who awed a hundred nations from the throne?
See where he lies, dumb, friendless, and alone!

Which grain of dust proclaims the noble birth?
Which is the royal particle of earth?

Where are the marks, the princely ensigns,-where?
Which is the slave, and which great David's heir?
Alas! the beggar's ashes are not known

From his who lately sat on Israel's throne!
How stands my great account? My soul, survey
The debt Eternal Justice bids thee pay!
Should I frail memory's records strive to blot,
Will heaven's tremendous reckoning be forgot?
Can I, alas! the awful volume tear?

Or rase one page of the dread register?

"Prepare thy house, thy house in order set :
Prepare the Judge of heaven and earth to meet."
So spake the warning Prophet,-awful words!
Which fearfully my troubled soul records.
Am I prepared? and can I meet my doom,
Nor shudder at the dreaded wrath to come?
Is all in order set, my house, my heart?
Does no besetting sin still claim a part?
No cherished error, loath to quit its place,
Obstruct within my soul the work of grace?
Did I each day for this great day prepare,
By righteous deeds, by sin-subduing prayer?
Did I each night, each day's offence repent,
And each unholy thought and word lament?
Still have these ready hands the afflicted fed,
And ministered to Want her daily bread?
The cause I knew not did I well explore?
Friend, advocate, and parent of the poor?
Did I, to gratify some sudden gust

Of thoughtless appetite, some impious lust
Of pleasure or of power, such sums employ
As would have flushed pale Penury with joy?
Did I in groves forbidden altars raise,

Or molten gods adore, or idols praise?

Did my firm faith to heaven still point the way? Did charity to man my actions sway?

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