ON

PROVIDENCE.

God works in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform:
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sov'reign will.

Ye feeble saints, fresh courage take:
The clouds ye so much dread,
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the LORD by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes are rip'ning fast,
Unfolding every hour:
The bud may have a bitter taste,

But WAIT to smell the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain;

GOD is his own Interpreter,

And he shall make it plain.

ON THE WORDS,

"If thou knewest who it is," &c.

Ат Jacob's well a stranger sought

His ardent thirst to clear;
Samaria's daughter little thought
The FONT of LIFE so near:
This had she known, her panting mind

For LIVING DRAUGHTS had sigh'd; Nor had Messiah, ever kind,

Those living draughts deny'd.
And Jacob's Well (no glass so true)
Britannia's image shows;
Messiah travels Britain through,
But who the Stranger knows?
Yet Britain must the Stranger know,
Or soon her loss deplore:
Behold the living waters flow;

Come drink, and thirst no more!

THE

DESERTED VILLAGE.

GOLDSMITH,

SWEET Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering bloom delay'd,
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please.
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene;
How often have I paus'd on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bow'rs, the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;

P.Rothwell sculp

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