4 The gourds from which we look for fruit Produce us often pain;

A worm unseen attacks the root,
And all our hopes are vain.

5 Since sin has filled the earth with woe,
And creatures fade and die,

Lord! wean our hearts from things below,
And fix our hopes on high.

The weeping Seed-time and joyful Harvest. Psalm 126.

1 THE darkened sky, how thick it lowers! Troubled with storms, and big with showers; No cheerful gleam of light appears,

But Nature pours forth all her tears.

2 Yet let the sons of grace revive ;
God bids the soul that seeks him live,
And from the gloomiest shade of night
Calls forth a morning of delight.

3 The seeds of ecstasy unknown
Are in these watered furrows sown;
See the green blades, how thick they rise,
And with fresh verdure bless our eyes!

4 In secret foldings they contain
Unnumbered ears of golden grain ;
And heaven shall pour its beams around,
Till the ripe harvest load the ground.

5 Then shall the trembling mourner come,
And bind his sheaves, and bear them home:
The voice long broke with sighs shall sing,
Till heaven with hallelujahs ring.

L. M.

505.

J. SHIRLEY altered.

Transitoriness of earthly Honors.

1 THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate e;
Death lays his icy hands on kings.

2 Princes and magistrates must fall,
And in the dust be equal made,
The high and mighty with the small,
Sceptre and crown with scythe and spade.

3 The laurel withers on our brow ;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds: Upon death's purple altar now

See where the victor victim bleeds!

4 All heads must come to the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just

Preserve in death a rich perfume,
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

C. M.

506.

The Highway to Zion.

DODDRIDGE.

1 SING, ye redeemed of the Lord,
Your great Deliverer sing;
Pilgrims for Zion's city bound,
Be joyful in your King.

2 See the fair way his hand hath raised,
How holy, and how plain !

Nor shall the simplest travellers err,
Nor ask the track in vain.

3 No ravening lion shall destroy,
Nor lurking serpent wound;
Pleasure and safety, peace and praise,
Through all the path are found.

4 A hand divine shall lead you on
Through all the blissful road,
Till to the sacred mount you rise,
And see your smiling God.

5 There garlands of immortal joy
Shall bloom on every head,
While sorrow, sighing, and distress,
Like shadows, all are fled.

6 March on in your Redeemer's strength;
Pursue his footsteps still;
And let the prospect cheer your eye,
While laboring up the hill.

L. P. M.

507.

DODDRIDGE.

The transitory Nature of the World.

1 SPRING up, my soul, with ardent flight,
Nor let this earth delude thy sight
With glittering trifles gay and vain :
Wisdom divine directs thy view
To objects ever grand and new,

And faith displays the shining train.

2 Be dead, my hopes, to all below; Nor let unbounded torrents flow,

When mourning o'er my withered joys: So this deceitful world is known; Possessed, I call it not my own,

Nor glory in its painted toys.

3 The empty pageant rolls along ;
The giddy, inexperienced throng
Pursue it with enchanted eyes;
It passeth in swift march away;
Still more and more its charms decay,
Till the last gaudy color dies.

4 My God, to thee my soul shall turn ;
For thee my noblest passions burn,

And drink in bliss from thee alone; I fix on that unchanging home, Where never-fading pleasures bloom,

Fresh springing round thy radiant throne.

394

C. M.

DEATH.

508.

Man's Mortality.

BISHOP HEBER.

1 BENEATH our feet and o'er our head
Is equal warning given;
Beneath us lie the countless dead,
Above us is the heaven.

2 Their names are graven on the stone,
Their bones are in the clay;
And, ere another day is done,
Ourselves may be as they.

3 Death rides on every passing breeze ;
He lurks in every flower;

Each season has its own disease,
Its peril every hour.

4 Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know; Where'er thy foot can tread,

The earth rings hollow from below,
And warns thee of her dead.

S. M.

509.

DODDRIDGE.

Reflections on the State of our Fathers.

1 How swift the torrent rolls,

2

That bears us to the sea!

The tide that bears our thoughtless souls To vast eternity!

Our fathers, where are they,

With all they called their own?