XXIII.

Let not the world my heart enflave,
Let not my paffions govern me,
From luft and pride, and avʼrice fave,

And let me live and die to thee.

GOOD FRIDAY.

I.

ACRED and folemn be the day,
And free from vulgar care and strife;
Let Poets ftrike the pious lays,

For now the Saviour yields his life.
II.

As on this folemn day he dies

A facrifice for mortal crimes,

Deep in the gloomy tomb he lies,

May rife to scenes of endless joys,

To blifs fupernal and fupreme,

To happiness that never cloys

Where God's great mercies are the theme.
IV.

Then humble, ferious, and refign'd,

Let us admire that parting breath,

Let us admire that godlike mind,

Which fav'd our fainting fouls from death.
V..

Strong be the influence that remains
Imprefs'd upon the grateful soul,
While mortals fing in pious strains,
The praise of God from pole to pole.

VI.

So fhall our future lives difplay

The virtues this event has taught,

And still on each returning day,

Acknowledge how our blifs was bought.

The foregoing lines are literally copied from the Morning Herald, Tuesday, April 14th, 1797, and if you think them worthy of a place in your Miscellany, they are at your fervice. AMICUS.

E

ON DIVINE LOVE.
I.

TERNAL fpring of boundless love,
Through rolling ages still the fame,

When Time's fwift wings fhall cease to move,
All men fhall praise thy glorious name.
II.

Oh! for an angel's voice to fing

Th' immortal glories of that day;

Above Parnaffian heights I'd raise,
My fweetly modulated lay.

III.

On loud harmonious numbers borne,

My grateful praise should mount on high;

Leave earth, and earthly things below,

Afcending upward to the sky,
IV.

Defcending downwards to the earth,

Orpheus like, the rocks I'd move;
With lofty, sweetly founding ftrains,

VOL. I.

Of God's invariable love.

WRITTEN AT AN INN,

By the late Doctor Horne, Bishop of Norwich.

I.

HE world is like an inn, for there

TH

Men call, and storm, and drink, and swear;

While undifturb'd a Chriftian waits,

And reads, and writes, and meditates.

II.

Tho' in the dark oft times I ftray,
The Lord fhall light me on my way,
And to the city of the fun,

Conduct me when my journey's done.

III.

Then by these eyes fhall he be feen,
Who fojourn'd for me in an inn;
On Sion Hill, I thofe fhall hail,
From whom I parted in the vale.

IV.

Why am I heavy then, and fad,

When thoughts like these fhould make me glad?

Mufe then no more on things below,

Arife my foul!-and let us go.