SOLILOQUY XXVI.

Sweet name of Jesus! in whose syllables
The animating pow'rs of harmony,
The soul of music dwells; thou shalt inspire
My sweetest numbers on the immortal strings,
The golden harps of heav'n — — My only hope!
I have no other refuge from the storm,
No rock for shelter, no refreshing shade,
No calm retreat to rest my weary soul.

Thou Saviour of the sinful race of man!
For whom descending from the heights of glory,
From songs, from triumphs, and the loud applause,
The shoutings of ten thousand times ten thousand,
Myriads of shining hosts, thy bright adorers,
Thou deign'st to quit them all, and veil the form
Of radiant god-head in a cloud of flesh.

Yet hast thou seen the travail of thy soul,
The purchase of thy blood? or is that blood,
(Tremendous thought!) or is that blood profan'd,
Thy grace rejected, and thy love despis'd?

Why shines the sun? why are the stars unseal'd?
Why spreads the moon her mild indulgent beams
To chear the midnight shades? Why keeps the spring
Her annual round, and with her vital sweets
Perfumes the seasons for a miscreant race,
Ungrateful and prophane! that dares blaspheme
The awful God of nature, and of grace?