I. esteem it more than my neceffary food... I have abundant cause to praise a gracious God, who condescends daily to instruct me how to war a good warfare, and makes me in his ftrength strong to endure. I cannot go one step without my divine leader, who is both my fun and fhield. I look to him for a folution of all my doubts, and in every difficulty, and on him I am enabled to caft my every care; fo that though my way is very rough and thorny; yet his prefence, his fmiles, his gracious aid, and condescending care, makes all easy, pleasant, and delightful. He makes crooked things straight, and rough places plain; fo that his word is fulfilled in the effects of his grace. The prevailing defire of my foul is to be wholly the Lords, and given up to his will in all things. He greatly encourages me to persevere in the way of fimple faith; and cleaving to him, I can go ftraight to him with all my troubles, and freely tell him all my complaints. O that I did more fully answer all his mercies, by a momentary aim at advancing his glory!

When you was at Witney, and for fome time before, my foul was filled with faith and hope, refpecting the profperity of the work of God here. From day to day thofe words enlivened my expectation, "I will abundantly blefs her provision, and fatisfy her poor with bread :" and bleffed be God, he is faithful, and hath in fome measure fulfilled his word; but I am waiting to behold its full accomplishment. About a week fince, I was fearching for a word of comfort and instruction, and providentially opened my Bible on the fifty-fourth of Isaiah, which, as I read the chapter through, was opened and explained to my mind, as a farther token of what the Almighty is about to do for his church in this place; and every time I read it (which has been often fince) I discover fresh beauty and immense fullness therein. I am, dear Sir, your obliged and affectionate fervant,

A. B.

LETTER

[From Lady to the Rev. J. Welley.]

Rev. Sir,

Jan. 13, 1783.

Flate I have found a folemn fense of eternity deeply impreffed on my mind, attended with a permanent and growing conviction, that nothing here below deserves a thought but living to God; unless as it tends more immediately, or remotely to forward this great end. I think the Lord has given me more than ever to form a just estimate of this world and the things of it, and of a truth I fee them to be lighter than a feather, while I feel the weight, and fee the importance of eternal things; the scale does indeed greatly preponderate on this fide.

I am stirred up much to prefs vigorously on. My foul is ftruggling into God with all the importunity of prayer, but as yet, ftill with unavailing efforts, I try to fcale the mount of holieft love; I fee, and deeply feel how far I am behind, and while thus wrestling for inward conformity to the divine image, I feel much drawn out in ftrong defires after activity in the ways of God; but in every fituation I find there is danger, for I now see such emptiness in all created good, that my heart is (perhaps too much) difunited from it, and even amongst Chriftians, I meet with fo few, if any, that are as much alive to God as I wish to be, and feel I must be, in order to be compleatly happy, that a little of them goes a great way. Perhaps this is wrong; how various, and how fubtle are the devices of the enemy! But the wifdom that cometh from above is profitable to direct in all things. I am now within a fhort mile of Edinburgh, and have more frequent opportunities of being in the house of God, and of enjoying intercourfe with his children (which I efteem a privilege) than I had before.

Through mercy I enjoy a larger measure of health than ufual. All I want is more of the life of God; for which I figh and inly mourn.

I trust you ftill wax ftronger and ftronger, having your hands made ftrong by the mighty God of Jacob: and are fill favoured with much fuccefs in your attempts to promote the Redeemer's kingdom. That every revolving feafon may bring you an increase of both is, Rev. Sir, the defire of your faithful humble fervant,

POETRY.

SHORT HYMN S.

[By the late Rev. C. Wesley.]

HYMN

XXI.

On MATT. v. ver. 45.-He maketh the fun to rife on the evil, and on the good, and fendeth rain, &c.

To Mr.

on the DEATH of his SISTER.

[By the Rev. Mr. G.]

N thefe ftill feats and folitary woods,

IN

Where fweetly-penfive melancholy broods;

Where

Where powers unfeen my contemplations aid,
And wait around me in the facred fhade,
Far from the city, undisturbed and free,
Thoughtful I fit retired, and think on thee.
Here, while the chryftal ftream runs purling by,
The pitying tear ftands trembling in my eye;
The forrows of my friend my heart oppress,
And my fad bosom shares his deep distress.
Yet, at thy call, my fleeping lyre I take,
And touch the ftrings for grief or pity's fake:
My fympathetic mufe, affift the ftrain,
Affwage his woe, and mitigate his pain.

Short is the space allowed to man below, Replete with care, and crowded thick with woe! Time, like a mighty torrent, fierce and strong, With rapid billows urges us along!

the young, the gay

The rich, the poor, the great, the

Hafte to the goal, and sink, and fade away!
O death! thy frown the ftouteft heart disarms,
And the earth trembles at thy dread alarms.
Yet, let me call thee, as indeed thou art,
The last sweet cordial for the aching heart!
Thou only canft the ftruggling foul release,
And point her passage to eternal peace.

Where yon white turrets, pointing to the sky,
Peep o'er the hills and meet the wand'ring eye,
Beneath the mould'ring turf, in filence laid,
Unnumbered victims crowd death's awful fhade.
There fleep the village-fathers, who, erewhile,
In these rich-laden fields were wont to toil;
To guide with nervous arm the plough along,
Or wake sweet echo with the harvest song.

Now

Now loft to winter's toil, and fummer's ftore,
Their cares all hufhed, and all their labours o'er,
In peaceful flumbers they fecurely rest,

And the green fod lies lightly on their breast.
While we, in different fcenes, are doom'd to bear
A world of anguish, and a weight of care,
On earth's foft pillow they recline their head,
And lose their forrows in the friendly shade.

Ye dear aerial forms, that wait around,
And ever hover o'er yon hallow'd ground!
Who oft have seen me folitary fray

O'er your ftill duft, beneath the moon's pale ray!
You know the inmoft fecrets of my breaft,

You can the warmth of my defires atteft,
How fain my foul would bid the world adieu,
Shake off mortality and mix with you:
But life's rough furges dafh me from the fhore,
And whisper, "Heaven has future ills in ftore."
If thus thy will ordains, O power benign!
If care and pining forrow must be mine,
Be thou my guardian through the dreary way,
And though I live to fuffer, I obey.

And has Amelia, now no longer tost

On life's rough ocean, gain'd the heavenly coast ?
Gladly I give thee joy, on her release,
Since now her parted fpirit is at peace.

But why for her these unavailing fighs,

Who wins the race and gains the glorious prize?
Say, was her lot fo far furpaffing ours,

And all her path fo fweetly strew'd with flowers,
That heaven itself can scarce the lofs repay
With the pure joys of an eternal day?

Ah