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set God always before his face, that he may be at his hand in every time of danger, so that he may not be greatly removed. Thus Paul sets us a race to run, and tells us to run it, looking to Jesus the author and finisher of our faith.' And, as God has promised to keep that men in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on him, and has commanded every believer to walk in Christ Jesus the Lord as they received him,' I believe those Christians who take him as he has revealed himself to them, 'the way, the truth, and the life,' will be found to be the best observers of the law in the end; unless we suppose that union with Christ, and a sense of pardoning love, destroys good works. However, as the Lord is the root and stock of every real Christian, union and communion with him is the only way for the tree to be made good;' and Truth has said, that if the tree be good, the fruit will be good also."

We would just detain the reader to observe, that the six volumes here presented to the public, do, in the execution, considerable credit to the publisher, which must have been attended with much labour and expence, as also anxiety of mind. If our commendation could be of avail, we should rejoice to hear that there was a speedy demand for the whole impression.

POETRY.

To the Editors of the Gospel Magazine.

MESSRS. EDITORS,

I SEND you a few devotional aspirations, which I think for holy fervour and spiritual breathing, cannot be excelled. They were written by an extraordinary female 150 years since, possessed of genius and talents of the most exalted description; and though she has been deemed by a Montgomery as an enthusiast, properly to be passed over, it would have been happy for him had he possessed some of those sparks from that heavenly flame which glowed in that dear woman's bosom: his productions would have been more fervent and more consistent.

St. Leonard's Farm, Cambridgeshire,

Oct. 14, 1838.

ASPIRATION I.

My great Redeemer lives! I know he lives!
I feel the sacred, the transporting truth
Exulting in my soul: He lives to plead
My cause above (unworthy as I am!)
He there appears to intercede for me.

My record is on high, and the blest Spirit
With gentle attestations pleads within;
Divine the voice, 'tis all celestial truth,
Vol. III.-SUP.

4 I

AMICUS.

!

7

I yield my glad assent; triumphant hope,
And heavenly consolations fill my soul,

I must, I will rejoice; 'tis God himself
Is my exceeding joy: he kindly smiles

And heav'n and earth look gay; while all the clouds
That conscious guilt spread o'er my shudd'ring soul
Vanish before those reconciling eyes.

Ye pow'rs of darkness, where are all your threats?
Speak out your charge, the black indictment read;
I own the dreadful, the amazing score;

But who condemns, when God does justify?
Who shall accuse, when freely he acquits?
He calls me blest, and what malignant pow'r
Shall call the blessing back? who shall reverse
What the Most High has said? Nor life, nor death,
Shall part me from his everlasting love.

ASPIRATION II.

Where are the boasts of nature? where its pride,
When reason looks within with humble view,
And sanctity of judgment measures out
My conduct by the perfect laws of God?

But oh! let not my crimes recorded stand
Before thy sight, nor call me to account,

Thou righteous judge; for who can answer thee?
Can mortal man be just? can he be pure

Whose dwelling is with flesh ? If thou shouldst pry
Into my secret guilt, I am

But if thou pardon the unnu score,

The glory will be thine, whose clemency

Can know no bounds; for thou art uncontroul'd,
And absolute in all thy ways: no rule

But thy own perfect nature limits thee.

I sink, this empty shadow pays thee homage,
And vanishes to nothing; thou art all.

I am but vanity; this is my share;

I am content; be thou alone advanc'd!
Thy grace is free, thy favours unconfin'd:
Whate'er my pride can boast, my righteousness
Can never profit thee. The saints above,
The highest angels stand not unreproach'd,
Nor spotless in the presence of thy glory.

O do not strictly mark my num'rous crimes,
Nor ask what I deserve, but what becomes
The grandeur of thy name, thy glorious nature,
Thy clemency, and gentle attributes:

Act thou up to th' heights of grace divine,
And be the glory and salvation thine!

ASPIRATION III.

When will the journey end? this weary race,

This tedious pilgrimage of life be o'er?

'Tis guilt, 'tis error, shades and darkness all!
Some hellish snare attends on ev'ry step,

And I shall stumble, fall, and be undone;
If thou one moment leave thy trembling charge,
And trust me to myself, my treach'rous heart
Will give up all the boundless joys to come,
The smiles of God, the raptures of his love,
For toys, for trifles, dross and empty dreams.
My foes are watchful; and my foolish heart,
Too credulous, unguarded and secure,
Gives easy entrance to the fatal arts
Of those infernal pow'rs that seek my ruin.

But thou canst break the snare ; and hitherto
The Lord has help'd, be thine alone the praise!
O leave me not at last to bring reproach,
Or cast a blemish on thy holy ways.

Thou know'st my folly, impotence and guilt,
What darkness, what depravity controuls

My nobler pow'rs; how when my rising thoughts
Would fix on thee, this mortal part withstands.

O bring my soul from this detested prison,
Enlarge it, and my tongue shall speak thy praise !

ASPIRATION IV.

The hour must come, the last important hour,
O let me meet it with expecting joy!

Nor let the king of terrors wear a frown,
Nor bring unwelcome tidings to my soul.

When all the springs of life are running low,
And ebbing fast in death; when nature tir'd,
Trembling and faint, gropes thro' the gloomy vale,
Nor human aid can give the least support;

Then may the cordials of eternal love
Pour in divine refreshments on my soul;

Then let him smile, whose gentle smiles could cheer
The shades of hell, and scatter all its gloom.

Forget me not in that important hour;
Recal these earnest sighs, look kindly o'er
The long recorded file of humble pray'r
Sent to thy gracious seat. Thou, who at once
Dost past, and present, and the future view,
Give back an answer in that sullen moment,
When all things else shall fail. No sound of joy,
No sight of beauty, no delightful scene
Shall ought avail; nor sun, nor sparkling stars
Shall yield one gentle, one propitious ray,
To gild the fatal dusk, or cheer the soul.

Then let the sun of righteousness arise
With dawning light, and be the prospect clear
Beyond the dismal gulph; let darting beams
Of glory meet my view. Be hell defy'd,
On that triumphant day: O let me give
A parting challenge to infernal rage,
And sing salvation to the Lamb for ever!

ELIZABETH ROWE,

INEFFECTUAL AND EFFECTUAL PRAYER CONTRASTED.

Cossey.

Not the long dead routine, however quaint,
With saintly mimick'd face and uplift eyes,
Proves the petitioner a perfect saint,

Who dare approach with his vain sacrifice.

In vain he tries to pay the dreadful debt
Contracted by the fall in which he fell;
In vain he kiss his hands, dreams he's acquit,
Yea deeper is he plunging down to hell.

His off'ring is a curse, an idol blest,

That idol is himself-of nothing worth:
Deluded man! he has himself carest-

Such vain oblations stink, denounc'd swine's broth.

The Pharisee thus stood, to boast, not pray,
To earn the favours of offended God:

A righteousness his own, his service pay,

Himself his altar, great high priest and Lord.
See at a distance stands, with downcast eyes,
One who had keenly felt the serpent's bite;
Who dares not boast, but loud for mercy cries,
With no good works stern justice to requite.

Internal anguish harrow'd up his soul,

Discover'd all the wounds and bruises there;
Broken from end to end-no portion whole-
Conscience awake-well might he thus despair.

Each blood-bought saint, each quicken'd soul,
New born are made to sigh-to weep and mourn ;
In broken accents say, "Lord make me whole:"
"Lord save"-"Lord help"-and often only groan.

Such prayers oft are heard—the angels stand—
The smoke ascends on high-the Father hears-
The golden censor in the angel's hand,

Proves them accepted in the Father's ears!

Take courage then, ye tried and sin opprest,
Go unto Jesus, pour out all your grief;

He hears, though but in sighs, the troubled breast-
Applies his precious blood, and gives relief.

Say, who then despairs, howe'er impure,

Since Christ can heal and speak the cleansing word:
He makes the greatest sore the soundest cure,

And triumphs o'er a captive bought with blood.

The living only feel-'tis they who cry-
They, only are heard-they only blest:
They find a Saviour ever ever nigh,
Believe on HIM, and enter into rest.

A HEWER OF WOOD.

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