It makes him grieve, and more afeard,
Than if he flander'd were.

Lord! therefore make my heart upright,
Whate'er my deeds do seem;
And righteous rather in Thy fight,
Than in the world's efteem.
And if aught good appear to be
In any act of mine,

Let thankfulness be found in me,

And all the praise be Thine.

George Wither.

THR

VIRTUE.

HRICE happy he whose name is writ above,
And doeth good through gaining infamy;

Requiteth evil turns with hearty love,

And recks not what befalls him outwardly;

Whose worth is in himselfe, and only bliffe
In his pure conscience that doth nought amiffe.

Who placeth pleasure in his purged soul,
And virtuous life his treasure doth esteem;
Who can his paffions mafter and controll,
And that true lordly manlineffe doth deeme;

Who from this world himself hath clearly quit,
Counts nought his own but what lives in his spright.

So when his spright from this vain world fhall flit,

It bears all with it whatsoever was dear

Unto itself, paffing in easy fit,

As kindly ripen'd corn comes out of th' ear,
Thus mindleffe of what idle men will say
He takes his own and ftilly goes his way."

True virtue to herself's the best reward,
Rich with her own, and full of lively spirit,
Nothing caft down for want of due regard,
Or 'cause rude men acknowledge not her merit ;

She knows her worth, and stock from whence she

sprung,

Spreads fair without the warmth of earthly dung.

Dewed with the drops of heaven shall flourish long;
As long as day and night do fhare the skie,
And though that day and night should faile, yet ftrong
And fteddie, fixéd on eternitie,

Shall bloom forever. So the soul fhall speed,
That loveth virtue for no worldly meed.

Though sooth to say, the worldly meed is due
To her more than to all the world befide;
Men ought do homage with affections true,
And offer gifts, for God doth there refide;

The wise and virtuous soul is his own seat,
To such what's given God himself doth get.
Dr. Henry More. 1614-1687.

THE UNITY OF THE SPIRIT.

HE Church of Chrift that he hath hallow'd here

TH

To be his house, is scattered far and ne

near,

In North and South and Eaft and Weft abroad,

And yet in earth and heaven, through Christ her Lord, The Church is one.

One member knoweth not another here,
And yet their fellowship is true and near,
One is their Saviour, and their Father one,
One Spirit rules them, and among them none
Lives to himself.

They live to Him who bought them with his blood,
Baptized them with his Spirit pure and good,
And in true faith and ever-burning love
Their hearts and hope ascend to seek above

The eternal Good.

O Spirit of the Lord, all life is thine,

Now fill thy Church with life and power divine,
That many children may be born to thee,

And spread thy knowledge like the boundless sea,

To Chrift's great praise.

A. G. Spangenberg. 1747.

INDEX TO FIRST LINES.

Abide with me. Fast falls the eventide
Again, how can she but immortal be

A garden so well watered before morn.

A gentle angel walketh throughout a world of woe .
Ah! say no more there 's nought but heaven

Alas these visits rare and rude

All praise and thanks to God most High
Alone with God! day's craven cares

A man there came, whence none could tell
And is there care in Heaven? and is there love
Angels shall free the feet from stain
Another day is numbered with the past
Another hand is beckoning us
Arise! ye lingering saints, arise!
As ere. I down am couchéd there

Be no imitator; freshly act thy part
Beyond the smiling and the weeping
Blest be the God, whose tender care
Breathe thoughts of pity o'er a brother's fall
Brief life is here our portion

Bright shadows of true rest!

But what or who are we, alas

Calm on the listening ear of night
Can angel spirits need repose
Children of God, who pacing slow

Come, blessed of my heavenly Father, come!
Come forth! come on, with solemn song!

Come, oh! come, with sacred lays

Come to the morning prayer

Companion none is like.