768

EVAN. C. M.

W. H. HAVERGAL.

4

And age with furrowed brow;
Time was, time shall be, but, alas!
Where, where in time is now?

3 Time is the measure but of change;
No present hour is found;
The past, the future, fill the range
Of time's unceasing round.

4 Then, Christian, let thy joys and fears On time no longer lean;

But henceforth all thy hopes and fears
From earth's affections wean.

769

1 Our days, alas, our mortal days
Are short and wretched too!
"Evil and few," the patriarch says,
And well the patriarch knew.

2 'Tis but, at best, a narrow bound,

That Heaven allows to men; [round And pains and sins run through the Of threescore years and ten.

3 Well, if ye must be sad and few,
Run on, my days, in haste;
Moments of sin, and months of woe,
Ye cannot fly too fast.

And lurks in every flower;
Each season has its own disease,

Its peril every hour.

3 Our eyes have seen the rosy light
Of youth's soft cheek decay,
And fate descend in sudden night
On manhood's middle day.

4 Turn, mortal, turn; thy danger know: Where'er thy foot can tread,

The earth rings hollow from below,
And warns thee by her dead.

771

R. HEBER

1 O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come;
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home.

2 Under the shadow of thy throne
Still may we dwell secure ;
Sufficient is thine arm alone,
And our defence is sure.

3 A thousand ages, in thy sight,

Are like an evening gone;

Short as the watch that ends the night,
Before the rising sun.

4 Time, like an ever-rolling stream,

Bears all its sons away; They fly, forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day.

773

I. WATTS.

1 Thee we adore, eternal Name,
And humbly own to thee
How feeble is our mortal frame,
What dying worms are we.

2 Our wasting lives grow shorter still,
As days and months increase;
And every beating pulse we tell
Leaves but the number less.

3 The year rolls round, and steals away The breath that first it gave; Whate'er we do, where'er we be, We're traveling to the grave.

I. WATTS.

774

1 Teach me the measure of my days, Thou Maker of my frame;

I would survey life's narrow space,
And learn how frail I am.

2 A span is all that we can boast;
How short the fleeting time!
Man is but vanity and dust,

In all his flower and prime.

3 What can I wish, or wait for, then, From creatures,-earth and dust? They make our expectations vain, And disappoint our trust.

775

I. WATTS

1 Through sorrow's night and danger's
Amid the deepening gloom, [path,
We, followers of our suffering Lord,
Are marching to the tomb.

2 There, when the turmoil is no more,
And all our powers decay,
Our lifeless form in solitude
Shall sleep the years away.
3 Our labors done, securely laid
In this our last retreat,
Unheeded, o'er our silent dust,

The storms of earth shall beat.

4 These ashes, then, this little dust
Our Father's care shall keep,
Till the last angel rise and break
The long and dreary sleep.

H. K. WHITE.

And from afar descry

How distant are his chariot wheels,

And tell how fast they fly.

We hear the voice, "Ye dead, arise!” And, lo, the graves obey!

And waking saints, with joyful eyes, Salute th' expected day.

I. WATTS.

A. WILLIAMS.

778 WINDHAM. L. M.

22

Arranged.

32 2

1 Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb;
Take this new treasure to thy trust,
And give these sacred relics room
To slumber in the silent dust.

2 Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear,
Invades thy bounds; no mortal woes
Can reach the peaceful sleeper here,
While angels watch the soft repose.

3 So Jesus slept; God's only Son [bed; Passed thro' the grave and blest its Rest here, blest saint, till from his throne The morning break and pierce the shade.

4 Break from his throne, illustrious morn!

Attend, O earth, his sov'reign word! Restore thy trust! a glorious form Shall then arise to meet the Lord. I. WATTS.

779

1 The morning flowers display their sweets,
And gay their silken leaves unfold,
All careless of the noontide heats,
And fearless of the evening cold.

2 So blooms the human face divine

When youth its pride of beauty shows, Fairer than spring the colors shine,

And sweeter than the blushing rose.

3 But worn by slowly rolling years Or broke by sickness in a day, The fading glory disappears,

The short-lived beauties die away.

1 Through every age, eternal God,
Thou art our rest, our safe abode :
High was thy throne ere heaven was made,
Or earth, thy humble footstool, laid.

2 Death, like an ever-flowing stream,
Sweeps us away: our life's a dream—
An empty tale-a morning flower,
Cut down and withered in an hour.

3 Teach us, O Lord, how frail is man,
And kindly lengthen out our span,
Till, cleansed by grace, we all may be
Prepared to die, yea, dwell with thee.
783

I. WATTS.

1 Life is the time to serve the Lord,
The time t'insure the great reward;
And while the lamp holds out to burn,
The vilest sinner may return.

2 The living know that they must die;
But all the dead forgotten lie;
Their mem'ry and their sense are gone,
Alike unknowing and unknown.

3 Their hatred and their love is lost,
Their envy buried in the dust;
They have no share in all that's done
Beneath the circuit of the sun.

4 Then what my thoughts design to do,
My hands, with all your might, pursue,
Since no device nor work is found,
Nor faith, nor hope, beneath the ground.

I. WATTS.

784

1 Like shadows gliding o'er the plain, Or clouds that roll successive on, Man's busy generations pass,

And while we gaze, their forms are gone.

2 "He lived,-he died;" behold the sum, The abstract of th' historian's page! Alike in God's all-seeing eye,

The infant's day, the patriarch's age. 3 O Father! in whose mighty hand

The boundless years and ages lie,
Teach us the boon of life to prize,
And use the moments as they fly;
4 To crowd the narrow span of life

With wise designs and virtuous deeds;
So shall we wake from death's dark night,
To share the glory that succeeds.
J. TAYLOR.

785
1 How blest the righteous when he dies,
When sinks his weary soul to rest;
How mildly beams the closing eyes,
How gently heaves th' expiring breast,

2 So fades a summer cloud away; So sinks the gale when storms are o'er ; So gently shuts the eye of day;

So dies a wave along the shore.

3 But soon shall shine that marble brow, When slumb'ring saints arise and sing, "O grave, where is thy vict'ry now, And where, O death, is now thy sting?"

A. L. BARBAULD.