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MICHAELMAS DAY.

Ou, captain of God's host, whose dreadful might Led forth to war the armed Seraphim,

And from the starry height,

Subdued in burning fight, Cast down that ancient dragon, dark and grim!

Thine angels, Christ! we laud in solemn lays, Our elder brethren of the crystal sky,

Who, ’mid thy glory’s blaze,

The ceaseless anthem raise,
And gird thy throne in faithful ministry!

We celebrate their love, whose viewless wing Hath left for us so oft their mansion high,

The mercies of their king,

To mortal saints to bring,
Or guard the couch of slumbering infancy.

But thee, the first and last, we glorify, Who, when thy world was sunk in death and sin,

Not with thine hierarchy,

The armies of the sky,
But didst with thine own arm the battle win,

Alone didst pass the dark and dismal shore, Alone didst tread the wine-press, and alone,

All glorious in thy gore,

Didst light and life restore,
To us who lay in darkness and undone !

Therefore, with angels and archangels, we To thy dear love our thankful chorus raise,

And tune our songs to thee

Who art, and ought to be, And, endless as thy mercies, sound thy praise !

IN TIMES OF DISTRESS AND DANGER.

Oh God, that madest earth and sky, the darkness

and the day, Give ear to this thy family, and help us when we

pray!

For wide the waves of bitterness around our ves

sel roar,

And heavy grows the pilot's heart to view the

rocky shore:

The cross our master bore for us, for him we

fain would bear, But mortal strength to weakness turns, and cour

age to despair ! Then mercy on our failings, Lord ! our sinking faith

renew! And when thy sorrows visit us, oh send thy pa

tience too!

INTENDED TO BE SUNG ON OCCASION OF HIS PREACHING A SERMON FOR THE CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY,

IN APRIL, 1820.

From Greenland's icy mountains,

From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains

Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,

From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain !

What though the spicy breezes

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,

And only man is vile :
In vain with lavish kindness

The gifts of God are strown,
The heathen, in his blindness,

Bows down to wood and stone !

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Can we, whose souls are lighted

With wisdom from on high, Can we to men benighted

The lamp of life deny ? Salvation ! oh salvation !

The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation

Has learn’d Messiah's name !

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,

And you, ye waters, roll, 'Till, like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole ; Till o'er our ransom'd nature,

The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss returns to reign!

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