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Weak and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain ;
And it revives again.
Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part; · Virtue engages his assent,
But Pleasure wins his heart.
'Tis here the folly of the wise,
Through all his art we view; And, while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.
Bound on a voyage of awful length
And dangers little known,
Man vainly trusts his own.
But oars alone can ne'er prevail,
To reach the distant coast; The breath of heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.
Far from the world, O Lord! I fee,
From strife and tumult far;
His most successful war.
The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree;
For those who follow thee.
There if thy spirit touch the soul,
Oh! with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God!
There like the nightingale, she pours
Her solitary lays;
Nor thirsts for human praise.
Author and guardian of my life,
And, all harmonious names in one,
My Saviour, thou art mine!
What thanks I owe thee, and what love,
A boundless, endless store,
When time shall be no more.
PROVI | ENCE.
God moves in a mysterious way,
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread, Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
The bud may have a bitter taste, · But sweet will be the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.
Yes! there are real mourners, 1 bave seen
And to be useful as resigned she aimed ;
Happy he sailed, and great the cares he took,
White was his better linen, and his check
His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek,
He had his wish, had more: I will not paint The lovers' meeting; she beheld him faint, With tender fears, she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew : He tried to smile; and, half succeeding, said, “ Yes! I must die”—and hope forever fled. Still long she nursed him ; tender thoughts meantime Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.