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Again that gracious word to me!

O speak that word again! My guilt is pardoned ?—can it be?

And loosed my every chain ?

No, blessed Lord; not every chain,

Not every bond, remove : Let one, at least, unloosed remain

The bond of grateful love.

FLY, YE HOURS.-For Music.

Fly, ye hours, the best, the brightest :
Best are they that fleet the lightest !

Man, be wise :

Thy earthly joys Are poor, compared with those thou slightest.

The world we roam

Is not our home :

We seek a rest that

aye

remaineth.

Through weal or woe,

From all below We haste to scenes where nothing paineth.

Fly, ye hours, &c.

It is not life,
This toil and strife :

These only serve from God to sever.

We hope to rise

Above the skies;
And there shall live, and live for ever.

Fly, ye hours, &c.

Can that be gain,

Whose charms detain

The soul from glory's richer treasures ?

Can that be woe,

That serves to throw

A brighter hue o'er coming pleasures ?

Fly, ye hours, the best, the brightest !
Thou that in the world delightest,

Rise, O rise

To nobler joys; And taste the bliss which now thou slightest.

“ WHITHER SHALL I FLY FROM THY

PRESENCE ?"

WHERE shall I fy? What dark untrodden path
Will lead a sinner from his Maker's wrath ?
Alas! where'er I bend my outcast way,
His eye can search, His mighty hand hath sway.

Is there no island in the depths of space,
No distant world, where I may shun his chace ?
Ah no! Of all He is the spring and soul :
All feel His care, all own His high controul.

But there is night :-perhaps her murky womb May wrap and hide me in its depths of gloom ? No: He that says, “ Be light, and there is light,” Can look Omniscience thro’ the dunnest night. Give me then morning's wings: I'll fling me where The desert waste ne'er claims His eye or care. Vain hope! If He were absent, conscience then Would act the God, and scare me back to men.

Well then the ocean : She my head shall hide, And quench his bolts in her o'ersheltering tide. Fool! the dark waves cleave wide at His comma

mand;

And, lo, He walks them as He walks the land.

What

say

the rocks? Stern marble, ope thy breast, And lock me in to monumental rest.

Vain, vain ! His voice the rocks have often heard; Nay, worlds dissolve before His lightest word,

Be death then mine! At least the grave, or hell, Will yield some sullen nook where I

may

dwell. No: the last trump shall burst the bars of death ; And God's stern presence felt makes hell beneath.

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