L

ORD, let me know my term of days, How soon my life will end; The num'rous train of ills disclose, Which this frail state attend.

Man like a shadow vainly walks,

With fruitless cares oppress'd; He heaps up wealth, but cannot tell By whom 'twill be possess'd.

HENRY PURCELL. Died, 1695. !

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N. V.

Why then should I on worthless toys,
With anxious care attend?
On Thee alone my stedfast hope
Shall ever, Lord, depend.

Lord, hear my cry, accept my tears,
And listen to my prayer;
Who sojourn like a stranger here,
As all my fathers were.

Director of Music at Leipsig. 1655.

From Havergal's Old Church Psalmody.'

Not by mortal's feeble sword,
Not by arm of flesh, O Lord,
But by Thine, and Thine alone,
Were their num'rous foes o'erthrown.
Thine the voice the world obeys;
Lord, to Thee be all the praise.