4.

Now a new space of life begins;
Set out afresh for heaven:
Seek pardon for thy former sins,
Through Christ so freely given.

5.

Devoutly yield thyself to God,
And on his grace depend;
With zeal pursue the heavenly road,
Nor doubt a happy end.

268. c. M.

Reflections on the Circumstances of the past Year.

MARK how the swift-wing'd minutes fly, And hours still hasten on!

How swift the circling months run round! How soon the year is gone!

2.

Let me indulge the serious thought;
The year that's past review:
What good, what evil, have I done?
What work have I to do?

3.

How is my debt of love increas'd
To that sustaining Power,
Who hath upheld my feeble frame,
And brought me to this hour!

4.

For all thy favours, O my God!
Thy goodness I adore:

Thou hast my cup with blessings fill'd,
And made that cup run o'er.

5.

For thy great mercy's sake, forgive
The guilt that marks the year;
And may I more than ever strive
To keep my conscience clear.
6.

What shall befall in future life
I would not, LORD! inquire:
To be prepared for all thy will,-
Be this my chief desire.

269. L. M.

The Possibility of dying this Year.

1.

GREAT GOD! we in thy courts appear,
Whose blessings crown the opening year;
Our feeble lives, thy care prolongs,
And wakes anew our annual songs.

2.

What numbers in the little space,
Have vacant left, on earth, their place,
Since, from this day, the circling sun
Hath his last yearly period run!

3.

We yet survive; but who can say,
Or through a year, a month, or day,
Secure from the attack of death,
He shall retain his vital breath?

4.

That breath is always in thy hand,
And stays, or goes, at thy command;
We hold our lives from thee alone,
Their limits all to us unknown.

5.

To thee would we our life resign;
Let life but while it lasts be thine,
And we can have no cause to fear,
Though it should end this present year.
6.

Though we, as time rolls swiftly on,
Borne on its tide, must soon be gone,
Yet, thankful, we behold the shore,
Where we shall live to die no more.

270. c. M.

Reflections on our Waste of Time.

.1.

REMARK, my soul! the narrow bounds
Of the revolving year!

How soon the weeks complete their rounds!
How short the months appear!

2.

Much of my dubious life is past,
Nor will return again;

How swift the fleeting moments haste!

How few may yet remain!

3.

Great GOD! awake this trifling heart

My great concern to see;

That I may choose the better part,

And wholly live to thee.

4.

Then shall their course more grateful roll,

If future years arise;

Or this prepare my waiting soul,

For joy that never dies.

271. c. M.

On the Death of a Young Person.

1.

WHEN blooming youth is snatch'd away,
By death's resistless hand,

Our hearts the mournful tribute pay,
Which sorrow must demand.

2.

While pity prompts the rising sigh,
Oh may this truth, imprest
With awful power,-'I too must die,'-
Sink deep in every breast!

3.

Let this vain world engage no more;
Behold the opening tomb!

It bids us seize the present hour;
To morrow death

may come.

4.

The voice of this alarming scene
May every heart obey;

Nor be the heavenly warning vain,
Which calls to watch and pray!

272. C. M.

On the Death of a Young Person.

1'..

LIFE is a span, a fleeting hour;
How soon the vapour flies!
Man is a tender, transient flower,
That e'en in blooming dies.

2.

Death spreads like winter's frozen arms, And beauty smiles no more:

Ah! where are now those rising charms Which pleas'd our eyes before?

3.

The once lov'd form, now cold and dead,
Each mournful thought employs;
And nature weeps, her comforts fled,
And wither'd all her joys.

4.

But wait the interposing gloom,

And, lo! stern winter flies;
And drest in beauty's fairest bloom,
The flowery tribes arise.

5.

Hope looks beyond the bounds of time,
When what we now deplore

Shall rise in full, immortal prime,

And bloom, to fade no more.

6.

Then cease, fond nature! cease thy tears;

Religion points on high;

There everlasting spring appears,

And joys which cannot die.

273. c. M.

The Sorrows of Nature soothed by the
Prospects of the Gospel.

WHILE to the grave our friends are borne,
Around their cold remains,

How all the tender passions mourn,
And each fond heart complains!