She was a woman of a steady mind

Should not the exile, Lord, defire.
Sing, my tongue, the glorious battle
Soft flumbers now mine eyes forfake
Some murmur when their sky is clear
Some sweet favour of Thy favour
Spirit of Mercy, Truth, and Love
Spirit of Spirits, who through every part

Tell me not in mournful numbers
Tell me, thou duft beneath my feet
Tender mercies on my way
The bird that foars on highest wing
The bright things and the beautiful
The child-like Faith that asks not fight
The child of tears, the child of tears

2

149

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day

159

The feeble pulfe, the gafping breath

.103

The first-born rose of vernal prime

186

The free-born Chriftian has no chains to prove

225

The Sundays of man's life

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King

Then tower'd the palace, then in awful state

There be none of Beauty's daughters

There is a living spirit in the lyre
There is an eye that never fleeps .
There is an unknown language ipoken
There is a place beyond the flaming hill

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods
There nor waxing moon nor waning
There's mufic in the morning air.

There's reft for the foul that on Jefus relies

There woman reigns, the mother, daughter, wife .

Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee.

Thou bleffed Saviour, facred Spring

Though private prayer be a brave defign

Thou haft left behind

127

67

161

239

91

134

265

94

113

Thou shalt rife, my duft! thou fhalt arife

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride
Thus when the lamp that lighted
Thy own musician, Lord, inspire.
'Tis gone, that bright and orbed blaze
'Tis the foft hour of eve, the fummer's fun
To me the thought of death is terrible
To the name that brings falvation
True friendship is a Gordian knot

Upon the ocean God is near

Vital spark of Heavenly flame

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more
Well for him who all things lofing
Were every faultering tongue of man

.

We wept!-'twas Nature wept- but Faith
What are they now? Morality may spare
What hallows ground where heros sleep
What if each drop of rain should plead
What joy, while thus I view the day
What is there in this vale of life.
What finners value I refign

What fudden blaze of fong

When eyes are beaming

When forced to part from those we love
When I furvey the wondrous cross
When fore afflictions crufh the foul

When fuch a man familiar with the fkies.
When these dark hours of earthly love
When the spark of life is waning

Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Which is the happiest death to die

Who hath this book, and reads it not

Within this awful volume lies

Woe be to the priest, y-born

Ye who your Lord's commiffion bear
Yon cottager who weaves at her own door

Finis.

PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE, LONDON.