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He will us to honour raise :
Oh, say not, dream not, heavenly notes
To childish ears are vain ;
And cannot reach the strain.
And yet the heaven-taught mind
The harmony unwind.
Taught by degrees to pray ;
Instructed day by day?
With children in His sight;
And to His arms invite?
The everlasting chant
In glory jubilant !
181 Yet stoops He, ever pleas'd to mark
Our rude essays of love,
Heard by some twilight grove.
These bright and order'd files,
All silence and all smiles.
Some glorious truth proclaims, What sages would have died to learn,
Now taught by cottage dames.
What are all pray’rs beneath
Half the deep thoughts they breathe ?
But angels, as we speak,
Than we o'er children weak.
And yet He owns their praise :
From infants' simple lays ?
VENI CREATOR. CREATOR. Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come, visit ev'ry pious mind; Come, pour Thy joys on human kind; From sin and sorrow set us free, And make Thy temples worthy Thee. O Source of uncreated light, The Father's promis'd Paraclete ! Thrice-holy fount, thrice-holy fire, Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire ; Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, To sanctify us while we sing. Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in Thy sevenfold energy! Thou strength of His almighty hand, Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown'st Thy gift with eloquence ; Refine and purge our earthly parts ; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul ; And when rebellious they are grown, Then lay Thine hand, and hold them down. Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
FROM THE FUNERAL SERVICE. Man that is born of woman, short his time, And full of woe! he springeth like a flower, Or like the grass, that, green at morning prime, Is cut and withereth ere the evening hour; Never doth he continue in one stay, But like a shadow doth he pass away. Yet not for ever, O Lord God most high ! Saviour! yet not for ever shall we die!
CONTEMPLATION OF DEPARTED SAINTS. They are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
After the sun's remove.
Whose light doth trample on my days;
Mere glimmerings and decays.
Shining no where but in the dark;
Could man outlook that mark !
Green earth closed lately o'er ;
For those who “die no more.”
Dread portals of the grave;
Whom Jesus died to save.