3 We bring them, Lord, with thankful hands,
And yield them up to Thee;
Joyful that we ourselves are Thine,
Thine let our offspring be!

446.

C. M.

BRIGGS' COLL.

REMEMBER THY CREATOR IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH.

1 YE joyous ones! upon whose brow
The light of youth is shed,

O'er whose glad path life's early flowers
In glowing beauty spread;

Forget not Him whose love hath poured
Around that golden light,

And tinged those opening buds of hope
With hues so softly bright.

2 Thou tempted one! just entering
Upon enchanted ground,

Ten thousand snares are spread for thee,
Ten thousand foes surround:

A dark and a deceitful band,
Upon thy path they lower;

Trust not Thine own unaided strength
To save thee from their power.

3 Thou whose yet bright and joyous eye
May soon be dimmed with tears,
To whom the hours of bitterness
Must come in coming years;
Teach early thy confiding eye
To pierce the cloudy screen,
To look above the storms of life,
Eternally serene.

:

447.

L. M.

FEED MY LAMBS!

L. E. LANDON.

1 WHILE yet the youthful spirit bears The image of its God within,

And uneffaced that beauty wears,
Which may too soon be stained by sin;
2 Then is the time for faith and love
To take in charge their precious care, -
Teach the young heart to look above,
Teach the young lips to speak in prayer.
3 The world will come with care and crime,
And tempt too oft that heart astray ;
Still the seed sown in early time
Shall not be wholly cast away.

4 The infant prayer, the infant hymn,
Within the darkened soul will rise,
When age's weary eye is dim,
And the grave's shadow round us lies.

5 The infant hymn is heard again,
The infant prayer is breathed once more;
Reclasping thus the broken chain,
We turn to all we loved before.

448.

L. M.

A CHILD'S PRAYER.

ANONYMOUS.

1 Great God! and wilt Thou condescend
To be my Father and my Friend?
I but a child, —and Thou so high,
The Lord of earth and air and sky!

2 Art Thou my Father?-Let me be
A. meek, obedient child to Thee;

And try, in word and deed and thought,
To serve and please Thee as I ought.
3 Art Thou my Father?-I'll depend
Upon the care of such a friend;
And only wish to do and be
Whatever seemeth good to Thee.

4 Art Thou my Father?-Then, at last,
When all my days on earth are past,
Send down, and take me, in Thy love,
To be Thy better child above.

449.

C. M.

MRS. BARBauld.

THE CHRISTIAN PILGRIM.

1 OUR country is Immanuel's ground;
We seek that promised soil;
The songs of Zion cheer our hearts,
While strangers here we toil.

2 Oft do our eyes with joy o'erflow,
And oft are bathed in tears;

But only heaven our hopes can raise,
And sin alone, our fears.

3 We tread the path our Master trod;
We bear the cross he bore;

And every thorn that wounds our feet
His temples pierced before.

4 The flowers that spring along the road
We scarcely stoop to pluck;

We walk o'er beds of shining ore,
Nor waste one wishful look.

5 We purge our mortal dross away,
Refining as we run;

And while we die to earth and sense,
Our heaven is here begun.

450.

C. M.

THE SPIRITUAL WORLD.

BRIGGS' COLL.

1 THERE is a world we have not seen,
That time can ne'er destroy,
Where mortal footstep hath not been,
Nor ear hath heard its joy.

2 There is a world, and O how blest!
Fairer than prophets told;
And never did an angel guest
One half its peace unfold.

3 Ah, this pure world is ever bright
With radiance all its own;
The streams of uncreated light
Flow round it from the throne.

4 Look not abroad with roving mind,
To seek that fair abode;

It comes, where'er the lowly find
The perfect peace of God.

451.

C. M.

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS.

CROSWELL.

1 Now gird your patient loins again,
Your wasting torches trim!
The chief of all the sons of men,
Shall we not welcome him?
Fill all his courts with sacred songs,
And from the temple wall
Wave garlands o'er the joyful throngs
That crowd his festival!

2 And still more freshly in the mind
Store up the hopes sublime

Which then were born for all mankind,
So blessed was the time;

And, underneath these hallowed eaves,
A Saviour will be born

In every heart that him receives,
On his triumphal morn.

THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE.

1 JESUS, while he dwelt below,
As divine historians say,

To a place would often go,

Near to Kedron's brook that lay:

In this place he loved to be,
And 'twas named Gethsemane.
28*

GRANT.