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Behold, Jehovah, think to whom thou e'er hast deal'd From the sea, from the land, from the south and the thus !

north, Have women ever eat their young, babes fondled in The vast generations of men are come forth.

their hands? Have Priest and Prophet e'er been slain in the Lord's The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set,

Where the Lamband the white-vested Elders are met! Holy place?

All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord, In the streets, upon the ground, lie slain the young And the doom of eternity hangs on His word!

and old ; My virgins and my youth have fallen by the sword; Oh mercy ! oh mercy! look down from above, In thy wrath thou'st slain them, thou hast had no Creator! on us thy sad children, with love! mercy.

When beneath to their darkness the wicked are driven,

May our sanctified souls find a mansion in heaven! Thou hast summond all my terrors, as to a solemn

feast; None 'scaped, and none was left in Jehovah's day of

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. wrath; All that mine arms have borne and nursed, the enemy

LORD! Thou didst arise and say hath slain.

ii. 20. 1, 2.

To the troubled waters “ Peace,"

And the tempest died away,
Remember, Lord what hath befallen,

Down they sank, the foamy seas;
Look down on our reproach.

And a calm and heaving sleep
Our heritage is given to stangers,

Spread o'er all the glassy deep,
Our home to foreigners,

All the azure lake serene
Our water have we drank for money,

Like another heaven was seen!
Our fuel hath its price-v. 1, 2, 3.
We stretch our hands to Egypt,

Lord! Thy gracious word repeat
To Assyria for our bread.

To the billows of the proud!
At our life's risk we gain our food,

Quell the tyrant's martial heat,
From the sword of desert robbers.

Quell the fierce and changing crowd!
Our skins are like an oven, parched,

Then the earth shall find repose

From its restless strife and foes ;
By the fierce heat of famine.

And an imaged Heaven appear
Matrons in Sion have they ravish'd,

On our world of darkness here!
Virgins in Judah's cities.
Princes were hung up by the hand,
And age had no respect.

FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.
Young men are grinding at the mill,

The angel comes, he comes to reap
Boys faint 'neath loads of wood.

The harvest of the Lord !
The Elders from the gate have ceased,

O'er all the earth with fatal sweep
The young men from their music.

Wide waves his flamy sword.
The crown is fallen from her head,
Woe! woe! that we have sinn'd.

And who are they, in sheaves to bide
"Tis therefore that our hearts are faint,

The fire of Vengeance bound !
Therefore our eyes are dim.

The tares, whose rank luxuriant pride
For Sion's mountain desolate,

Choked the fair crop around.
The foxes walk on it.

And who are they, reserved in store

God's treasure-house to fill?
HYMNS FOR CHURCH SERVICE.

The wheat a hundred-fold that bore

Amid surrounding ill.
SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT.
THE chariot! the chariot ! its wheels roll on fire

O King of Mercy! grant us power
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire :

Thy fiery wrath to flee! Self-moving it drives on its pathway of cloud,

In thy destroying angel's hour, And the Heavens with the burthen of Godhead are

O gather us to Thee!
bow'd.

QUINQUAGESIMA.
The glory! the glory! by myriads are pour'd
The host of the Angels to wait on their Lord,

Lord! we sit and cry to Thee,
And the glorified saints and the martyrs are there,

Like the blind beside the way:

Make our darken'd souls to see And all who the palm-wreath of victory wear.

The glory of thy perfect day! The trumpet! the trumpet! the dead have all heard : Lord! rebuke our sullen night, Lo, the depths of the stone-cover'd charnel are stirr’d: And give Thyself unto our sight!

Lord! we do not ask to gaze

On our dim and earthly sun; But the light that still shall blaze

When every star its course hath run: The light that gilds thy blest abode, The glory of the Lamb of God!

GOOD FRIDAY. BOUND upon th' accursed tree, Faint and bleeding, who is He? By the eyes so pale and dim, Streaming blood and writhing limb, By the flesh with scourges tom, By the crown of twisted thorn, By the side so deeply pierced, By the baffled burning thirst, By the drooping death-dew'd brow, Son of Man! 't is Thou! 't is Thoo!

SECOND SUNDAY IN LENT.

Oh help us, Lord ! each hour of need

Thy heavenly succour give;
Help us in thought, and word, and deed,

Each hour on earth we live.
Oh help us, when our spirits bleed

With contrite anguish sore,
And when our hearts are cold and dead,

O help us, Lord, the more.
O help us, through the prayer of faith

More firmly to believe;
For still the more the servant bath,

The more shall he receive.
If strangers to Thy fold we call,

Imploring at Thy feet
The crums that from Thy table fall,

"Tis all we dare entreat.

Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He ?
By the sun at noon-day pale,
Shivering rocks, and rending veil,
By earth that trembles at His doom,
By yonder saints who burst their tomb,
By Eden, promised ere He died
To the felon at His side,
Lord ! our suppliant knees we bow,
Son of God! 't is Thou! 'tis Thou !

Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Sad and dying, who is He ?
By the last and bitter cry
The ghost given up in agony ;
By the lifeless body laid
In the chamber of the dead;
By the mourners come to weep
Where the bones of Jesus sleep;
Crucified! we know Thee now;
Son of Man! 't is Thou! 't is Thou !

But be it, Lord of Mercy, all,

So Thou wilt grant but this; The cruins that from Thy table fall

Are light, and life, and bliss.

Oh help us, Jesus! from on high,

We know no help but Thee; Oh! help us so to live and die

As thine in Heaven to be.

Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He !
By the prayer for them that slew,

Lord! they know not what they do!”
By the spoil'd and empty grave,
By the souls He died to save,
By the conquest He hath won,
By the saints before His throne,
By the rainbow round His brow,
Son of God ! 't is Thou! 't is Thou!

SIXTH SUNDAY IN LENT.

SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

Ride on! ride on in majesty! Hark! all the tribes Hosanna cry! Thine humble beast pursues his road, With palms and scatter'd garments strow'd! Ride on! ride on in majesty! In lowly pomp ride on to die ! Oh Christ! Thy triumphs now begin O'er captive death and conquer'd Sin! Ride on ! ride on in majesty! The winged squadrons of the sky Look down with sad and wondering eyes, To see the approaching sacrifice! Ride on ! ride on in majesty! Thy last and fiercest strife is nigh; The father on His sapphire throne Expects His own anointed Son! Ride on! ride on in majesty! In lowly pomp ride on to die ! Bow Thy meek head to mortal pain ! Then take, oh God! Thy power, and reign!

LORD! have mercy when we strive
To save through Thee our souls alive!
When the pamper'd flesh is strong,
When the strife is fierce and long;
When our wakening thoughts begin,
First to loathe their cherish'd sin,
And our weary spirits fail,
And our aching brows are pale,

Oh then have mercy! Lord!

Lord! have mercy when we lie On the restless bed, and sigh, Sigh for Death, yet fear it still, From the thought of former ill; When all other hope is gone; When our course is almost done :

When the dim advancing gloom Tells us that our hour is come,

Oh then have mercy! Lord!

Lord! have mercy when we know
First how vain this world below;
When the earliest gleam is given
Of Thy bright but distant Heaven!
When our darker thoughts oppress,
Doubts perplex and fears distress,
And our sadden'd spirits dwell
On the open gates of Hell,

Oh then have mercy! Lord!

Great God of Hosts! come down to rule o'er us!

Long have we pray'd for thy peaceful reign : Change this sad earth to an Eden before us ;

Make it the mansion of bliss again! Great God of Hosts! the dreadful, the glorious !

Come and set up thy kingly Throne. Over the legions of Hell victorious,

Rule in the world of thy saints alone!

EIGHTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

WHEN our heads are bow'd with woe,
When our bitter tears o'erflow;
When we mourn the lost, the dear,
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!

When God came down from Heav'n— the living

GodWhat signs and wonders mark'd his stately way? Brake out the winds in music where He trode ?

Shone o'er the heav'ns a brighter, softer day? The dumb began to speak, the blind to see,

And the lame leap'd, and pain and paleness fled; The mourner's sunken eye grew bright with glee,

And from the tomb awoke the wondering dead ! When God went back to heav'n—the living God

Rode He the heavens upon a fiery car ? Waved seraph-wings along his glorious road?

Swod still to wonder each bright wandering star?

Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, Thou our mortal griefs hast borne, Thou hast shed the human tear : Gracious Son of Mary, hear!

When the sullen death-bell tolls For our own departed souls ; When our final doom is near, Gracious Son of Mary, hear!

Upon the cross He hung, and bow'd the head,
And pray'd for them that smote, and them that

curst;
And, drop by drop, his slow life-blood was shed,

And his last hour of suffering was his worst!

Thou hast bow'd the dying head; Thou the blood of life hast shed; Thou hast fill'd a mortal bier: Gracious Son of Mary, hear!

TWENTIETH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

When the heart is sad within With the thought of all its sin; When the spirit shrinks with fear, Gracious Son of Mary, hear!

LORD, have mercy, and remove us

Early to thy place of rest, Where the heavens are calm above us,

And as calm each sainted breast!

Thou the shame, the grief hast known, Though the sins were not thine own, Thou hast deign'd their load to bear, Gracious Son of Mary, hear!

Holiest, hear us! by the anguish

On the cross Thou didst endure, Let no more our sad hearts languish

In this weary world obscure ! Gracious! - yet if our repentance

Be not perfect and sincere, Lord, suspend thy fatal sentence,

Leave us still in sadness here!
Leave us, Saviour! till our spirit

From each earthly taint is free,
Fit thy kingdom to inherit,
Fit to take its rest with Thee!

457

SEVENTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

Great God of Hosts ! come down in thy glory!

Shake earth and heaven with thine awful tread : Seal Thou the book of our world's dark story: Summon to judgment the quick and the dead!

38

THE

POETIOAL WORKS

OF

JOHN KEATS.

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