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God the foundation of their empire laid,
The model of their constitution made;
He on their throne their King in person sate,

And ruled with equal laws the sacred state.
For this blest purpose Jacob's seed

Was from the Egyptian bondage freed.

When God to do this wondrous work was pleased,

Great consternation nature seized:

The restive floods refused to flow,

Panting with fear, the winds could find no breath to blow,

The astonished sea did motionless become,

Horror its waters did benumb.

The briny waves, that reared themselves to see

The Almighty judgments, and his majesty,

With terror crystallized, began to halt,

Then pillars grew, and rocks of salt.

Jordan, as soon as this great deed it saw,

Struck with a reverential awe,

Started, and with precipitation fled,

The thronging waves ran backward to their head.
Vast hills were moved from out their place,

Terror the mountains did constrain

To lift themselves from off their base,

And on their rocky roots to dance about the plain.

The little hills, astonished at the sight,

Flew to the mother-mountains in a fright,

And did about them skip, as lambs

Run to and bleat around their trembling dams.

What ailed thee, O thou troubled sea,

That thou with all thy watery troops didst flee?

What ailed thee, Jordan? tell the cause

That made thy flood break nature's laws;

Thy course thou didst not only stop,
And roll thy liquid volumes up,

But didst e'en backward flow, to hide
Within thy fountain's head thy refluent tide.

What did the lofty mountains ail?

What pangs of fear did all the hills assail,

That they their station could not keep,

But, scared with danger, ran like timorous scattered sheep? But why do I demand a cause

Of your amazement, which deserves applause?

Yours was a just, becoming fear;

For when th' Almighty does appear,

Not only you, but the whole earth should quake,
And out of reverence should its place forsake.
For He is nature's sovereign Lord,

Who by his great commanding word
Can make the floods to solid crystal grow,

Or melt the rocks, and make their marble flow.

THE SINNER'S FATE.

FROM A PARAPHRASE ON JOB.

WHAT if the sinner's magazines are stored
With the rich spoils that Ophir's mines afford?
What if he spends his happy days and nights
In softest joys and undisturbed delights?
Where is his hope at last, when God shall wrest
His trembling soul from his reluctant breast?
Must he not then heaven's vengeance undergo,
Condemned to chains and everlasting wo?
This is his fate; but often here below
Justice o'ertakes him, though it marches slow.
And when the day of vengeance does appear,
The wretch will cry, but will the Almighty hear?
If, bathed in tears, compassion he invokes,
The unrelenting Judge will multiply his strokes;
His vain complaints and unregarded prayer
Will drive the raving rebel to despair.
Or will he yet with confidence apply
Himself to God, and on his aid rely?
Will he not rather cease in his distress

His prayers to heaven hereafter to address?

THOMAS FLATMAN.

THOMAS FLATMAN was born in 1633. He has been honored by Wood with the title of an eminent poet; and though his writings may not entitle him to such a distinction, there is still sufficient beauty in his pieces to show that the censure bestowed on him by some recent critics is wholly undeserved. He died in 1688. Addison borrowed the first of his minor poems from Flatman's "Thought of Death."

HYMN FOR THE MORNING.

AWAKE, my soul! awake, mine eyes!

Awake, my drowsy faculties!

Awake, and see the new-born light

Spring from the darksome womb of night!

Look up and see the unwearied sun,

Already has his race begun.

The pretty lark is mounted high,
And sings her matins in the sky.
Arise, my soul! and thou, my voice,
In songs of praise early rejoice!
O great Creator! heavenly King!
Thy praises ever let me sing!

Thy power has made, thy goodness kept,
This fenceless body while I slept;

Yet one day more has given me
From all the powers of darkness free.
Oh! keep my heart from sin secure,
My life unblameable and pure;

That when the last of all my days is come,
Cheerful and fearless I may wait my doom.

FOR THE EVENING.

SLEEP! downy sleep! come close mine eyes,
Tired with beholding vanities;

Sweet slumbers, come, and chase away

The toils and follies of the day.

!

On your soft bosom will I lie,
Forget the world, and learn to die.
O Israel's watchful Shepherd! spread
Tents of angels round my bed;
Let not the spirits of the air

While I slumber me ensnare ;

But save thy suppliant free from harms,
Clasped in thine everlasting arms.

Clouds and thick darkness are thy throne,
Thy wonderful pavilion ;

Oh! dart from thence a shining ray,
And then my midnight shall be day!
Thus when the morn in crimson dressed,
Breaks through the windows of the east,
My hymns of thankful praise shall rise
Like incense at the morning sacrifice!

A THOUGHT OF DEATH.

WHEN on my sickbed I languish,
Full of sorrow, full of anguish,
Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying,

Panting, groaning, speechless, dying,
My soul just now about to take her flight
Into the regions of eternal night;

Oh tell me, you

That have been long below,

What shall I do!

What shall I think, when cruel death appears, That may extenuate my fears!

Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say,

Be not fearful, come away !

Think with thyself that now thou shalt be free,
And find thy long-expected liberty;

Better thou mayst, but worse thou canst not be
Than in this vale of tears and misery.
Like Cæsar, with assurance then come on,
And unamazed attempt the laurel crown
That lies on th' other side death's rubicon.

REV. JOHN NORRIS.

JOHN NORRIS, author of numerous theological works, and of "A Collection of Miscellanies, consisting of Poems, Essays, Discourses, and Letters," was born in 1657. It has been justly said, that "in the union of learning and logical argument with sublime piety, few have equalled Norris of Bemerton." In his poem "Transient Delight," is the line,

Like angels' visits, short and bright,

the original of the passage in Blair's "Grave”—

Visits

Like those of angels, short and far between :

and in Campbell's "Pleasures of Hope,"

Like angels' visits, few and far between.

Norris was rector of Bemerton, in Wiltshire, and died in 1711.

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FAREWELL fruition, thou grand, cruel cheat,
Which first our hopes dost raise, and then defeat;
Farewell thou midwife to abortive bliss,

Thou mystery of fallacies.

Distance presents the object fair,

With charming features and a graceful air;
But when we come to seize the inviting prey,
Like a shy ghost it vanishes away.

So to the unthinking boy the distant sky
Seems on some mountain's surface to rely;
He with ambitious haste climbs the ascent,
Curious to touch the firmament.
But when, with an unwearied pace,
Arrived he is at the long-wished-for place,
With sighs the sad defeat he does deplore-
His heaven is still as distant as before.

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