SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

0, hand of bounty, largely spread,
By whom our every want is fed,
Whate'er we touch, or taste, or see,
We owe them all, O Lord, to thee ;
The corn, the oil, the purple wine,
Are all thy gifts, and only thine.

The stream thy word to nectar dyed,
The bread thy blessing multiplied,
The stormy wind, the whelming flood,
That silent at thy mandate stood,
How well they knew thy voice divine,
Whose works they were, and only thine.

Though now no more on earth we trace
Thy footsteps of celestial grace,
Obedient to thy word and will
We seek thy daily inercy still ;
Its blessed beams around us shine,
And thine we are, and only thine.

FOR THE SAME.

INCARNATE Word, who, wont to dwell
In lowly shape and cottage cell,
Didst not refuse a guest to be
At Cana's poor festivity :

0, when our soul from care is free,
Then, Saviour, may we think on Thee,
And seated at the festal board,
In Fancy's eye behold the Lord.

Then may we seem, in Fancy's ear,
Thy manna-dropping tongue to hear,
And think,-even now, thy searching gaze
Each secret of our soul surveys!

So may such joy, chastised and pure,
Beyond the bounds of earth endure ;
Nor pleasure in the wounded mind
Shall leave a rankling sting behind.

FOR THE SAME. WHEN on her Maker's bosom

The new-born earth was laid, And nature's opening blossom

Its fairest bloom displayed ; When all with fruit and flowers

The laughing soil was dressed, And Eden's fragrant bowers

Received their human guest; No sin his face defiling,

The heir of Nature stood, And God, benignly smiling,

Beheld that all was good. Yet in that hour of blessing,

A single want was known; A wish the heart distressing;

For Adam was alone. 0, God of pure affection,

By men and saints adored, Who gavest thy protection

To Cana's nuptial board, May such thy bounties ever

To wedded love be shown, And no rude hand dissever

Whom thou hast linked in one.

LORD, whose love, in power excelling,

Washed the leper's stain away,
Jesus, from thy heavenly dwelling,

Hear us, help us, when we pray.

From the filth of vice and folly,

From infuriate passion's rage,
Evil thoughts and hopes unholy,

Heedless youth and selfish age;

From the lusts whose deep pollutions

Adam's ancient taint disclose,
From the tempter's dark intrusions,

Restless doubt and blind repose ;

Froin the miser's cursed treasure,

From the drunkard's jest obscene, From the world, its pomp and pleasure,

Jesus, Master, make us clean.

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

When through the to sail the wild tempest is

streaming, When o'er the dark wave the red lightning is

gleaming, Nor hope lends a ray the poor seamen to cherish, We fly to our Maker- Help, Lord, or we

perish.'

0, Jesus, once tossed on the breast of the billow,
Aroused by the shriek of despair from thy pillow,
Now seated in glory, the mariner cherish,
Who cries in his danger-Help, Lord, or we

perish.'

And 0, when the whirlwind of passion is raging, When hell in our heart his wild warfare is waging, Arise in thy strength thy redeemed to cherish, Rebuke the destroyer Help, Lord, or we

perish.'