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249. C. M.
The Christian's prospect.
HAPPY the soul whose wishes climb
To mansions in the skies;
He looks on all the joys of time
With undesiring eyes.
In vain soft pleasure spreads her charms,
And throws her silken chain;
And wealth and fame invite his arms,
And tempt his ear, in vain.
He knows that all these glittering things
Must yield to sure decay,
And sees on time's extended wings
How swift they fleet away.
To things unseen by mortal eyes
A beam of sacred light
Directs his view: his prospects rise
All permanent and bright.
His hopes are fixt on joys to come :
Those blissful scenes on high
Shall flourish in immortal bloom,
When time and nature die.
L. M. MRS. STEELE.
The Christian's noblest resolution.
AH! wretched souls who strive in vain,
Slaves to the world, and slaves to sin!
A nobler toil may I sustain,
A nobler satisfaction win!
May I resolve with all my heart,
With all my powers, to serve the Lord;
Nor from his precepts e'er depart,
Whose service is
O be his service all my joy!
Around let my example shine,
Till others love the blest employ,
And join in labours so divine.
Be this the purpose of my soul,
My solemn, my determined choice,
To yield to his supreme control,
And in his kind commands rejoice.
O may I never faint nor tire,
Nor wandering leave his sacred ways!
Great God, accept my soul's desire,
And give me strength to live thy praise.
The Christian race.
AWAKE, our souls, away, our fears,
Let every trembling thought be gone;
Awake, and run the heavenly race,
And put a cheerful courage on.
True 'tis a strait and thorny road,
And mortal spirits tire and faint;
But they forget the mighty God
That feeds the strength of every saint:
The mighty God, whose matchless power
Is ever new and ever young,
And firm endures while endless
Their everlasting circles run.
From thee, the overflowing spring,
Our souls shall drink a fresh supply;
While such as trust their native strength
Shall melt away, and droop, and die.
Swift as an eagle cuts the air,
We'll mount aloft to thine abode;
On wings of love our souls shall fly,
Nor tire amidst the heavenly road.
The Christian race.
AWAKE, my soul, stretch every nerve,
And press with vigour on:
A heavenly race demands thy zeal,
And an immortal crown.
A cloud of witnesses around
Hold thee in full survey;
Forget the steps already trod,
And onward urge thy way.
"Tis God's all-animating voice
That calls thee from on high;
"Tis his own hand presents the prize
To thine aspiring eye:
That prize, with peerless glories bright, Which shall new lustre boast
When victors' wreaths and monarchs' gems Shall blend in common dust.
My soul, with sacred ardour fired,
The glorious prize pursue;
And meet with joy the high command,
To bid this earth adieu.
L. M. MRS. BARBAULD.
AWAKE, my soul, lift up thine eyes,
See where thy foes against thee rise,
In long array, a numerous host;
Awake, my soul, or thou art lost.
Here giant danger threatening stands Mustering his pale terrific bands; There pleasure's silken banners spread, And willing souls are captive led.
See where rebellious passions rage,
And fierce desires and lusts engage;
The meanest foe of all the train
Has thousands and ten thousands slain.
Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground,
Perils and snares beset thee round;
Beware of all, guard every part,
But most, the traitor in thy heart.
Come then, my soul, now learn to wield The weight of thine immortal shield; Put on the armour from above
Of heavenly truth and heavenly love.
The terror and the charm repel,
And powers of earth, and powers of hell;
The man of Calvary triumph'd here,
Why should his faithful followers fear?