I spend my time in sloth and hate,

Nor earn my daily bread.

While idle wretches pine and starve,
And nothing good will do,

I'll labour on and try to serve

God, and my neighbour too.

THE LABOURER'S

EVENING HYMN.

THE stream of time again hath sent

Another setting sun;

Night ushers forth, the day is spent,

And all my labour's done.

Thanks to thy name, Almighty Pow'r!

For all thy wonted aid,

My feeble frame, thro' ev'ry hour

Thy mighty arm hath stay'd.

To thee, for life and strength and sense, My grateful thanks I yield:

Thou art my 'rock and sure defence,'

My buckler and my shield.

And O! when errors would intrude

To vitiate my mind,

Lend me thy aid, for thou art good,

Tho' I myself am blind.

Keep me obedient to thy will,

And if I go astray,

Be thou my staff and lantern still,
And guide me in thy way.

A NIGHT REFLECTION.

AND now another summer I have past,
Winter comes on,—the days are short'ning fast!
Gloomy and tiresome is the length'ning night.
Ah! what a task t'await the morning light!
Hour after hour, I hear the warning bell:
'Tis heav'nly music, if I mind it well;
Because it shews, tho' still my life I have,

How speedily I'm trav'ling to the grave;

The place where all my worldly cares shall cease, And this declining fabric rest in peace.

T

A MORNING REFLECTION.

THE tedious hours of night are pass'd away!
And in succession bring another day.

Come now, my soul! and let me meditate

Both on my present and my future state.

My precious time is posting on in haste.
The weaver's shuttle does not fly so fast.
All this world's trifles shortly I must leave,
And my frail clay be huddled in its grave.
Look up to Cod! On him at once rely!
'Tis no good sign to be afraid to die.

Cheer up, my soul! and boldly struggle through.

Death's a dark passage-but a short one too.

Waste not a moment on the fear of ill.

Come death! Come grave! Come Heav'n! and all is well.

A NIGHT REFLECTION.

CASTING aside the busy toils of life,

While lonely thus immur'd in night's dark gloom,

Nor melancholy shall my peace invade,

Nor fearful tim'rous thoughts disturb my brain,

Like infants, terrified with demon forms.

For God is present tho' I lonely sit:

Or day or darkest night, his power's the same
To lend support; if we but humbly bend
In pray'r and praise to his celestial throne.
His promise this. On this I will rely,

Trust in his aid; and as I've done amiss,
His pardon crave, and strive my life t'amend.

TIM'ROUS man! why still complaining?
This world's ills will shortly cease.—

After those few days remaining,

I shall lay me down in peace.

On my mother's lap reclining,

In the grave's secure abode,

When my sun has ceas'd its shining,
And my spirit flown to God.

Yet the grave shall not confine me!
Who the myst❜ry can explain?

Its dark mansion must resign me,

When He calls me forth again.

I shall rise at his commanding,

And his glorious face behold!

'Tis beyond my understanding—
He the myst'ry will unfold.

WHAT are the dreams of life, in youth and age, That all our time so anxiously engage!

Think on the whole, 'tis but a summer's day— We spring, we blossom, and then fade away.

Forgive my errors, Lord! I humbly pray:
For I must soon be summon'd hence away;
And when my spirit up to Heav'n is fled,
This mortal frame must sleep among the dead.
The worm my kinsman, and the dust my bed.

DECEITFUL World, how transient are thy joys! Replete with sorrow, bustle, care, and noise: Through life's sad journey we still stagger on, Yet loath to quit till all our days are gone.