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Sun, and moon with borrow'd light,
All you sparkling eyes of night,
Waters hanging in the air,
Heaven of heavens His praise declare.
His deserved praise record,
His who made you by His Word,
Made you evermore to last,
you bounds not to be past.
Let the earth His praise resound,
Monstrous whales and seas profound;
Vapours, lightnings, hail and snow,
Storms which when He bids them blow;
Flowery hills and mountains high;
Cedars, neighbours to the sky;
Trees that fruit in season yield ;
All the cattle of the field,
Savage beasts, all creeping things,
All that cut the air with wings;
You who awful sceptres sway,
You inured to obey,
Princes, judges of the earth,
All of high and humble birth;
Youths and virgins flourishing
In the beauty of your spring,
You who bow with age's weight,
You who were but born of late;
Praise His Name with one consent.
Oh, how great! how excellent!
Than the earth profounder far,
Higher than the highest star,
He will us to honour raise :
You, His saints, resound His praise;
You who are of Jacob's race,
And united to His grace.
Он, say not, dream not, heavenly notes
To childish ears are vain ;
That the young mind at random floats,
And cannot reach the strain.
Dim or unheard the words may fall,
And yet the heaven-taught mind
May learn the sacred air, and all
The harmony unwind.
Was not our Lord a little child,
Taught by degrees to pray;
By father dear, and mother mild,
Instructed day by day?
And lov'd He not of heaven to talk,
With children in His sight;
To meet them in His daily walk,
And to His arms invite?
What though around His throne of fire
The everlasting chant
Be wafted from the seraph-choir
In glory jubilant !
Yet stoops He, ever pleas'd to mark
Our rude essays of love,
Faint as the pipe of wak'ning lark,
Heard by some twilight grove.
Yet is He near us, to survey
These bright and order'd files,
Like spring-flow'rs in their best array,
All silence and all smiles.
Save that each little voice in turn
Some glorious truth proclaims,
What sages would have died to learn,
Now taught by cottage dames.
And if some tones be false or low,
What are all pray'rs beneath
But cries of babes, that cannot know
Half the deep thoughts they breathe?
In His own words we Christ adore ;
But angels, as we speak,
Higher above our meaning soar
Than we o'er children weak.
And yet His words mean more than they,
And yet He owns their praise:
Why should we think He turns away
From infants' simple lays?
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,
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe;
Give us Thyself, that we may see
The Father and the Son by Thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's Name;
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died;
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to Thee!
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;