Hymn:

ON OCCASION OF LAYING THE FOUNDATIONSTONE OF A CORN-MILL, NEAR

SHEFFIELD,

To be erected for the purpose of supplying the Members of Forty Sick-Clubs with flour and meal at reasonable

prices.

November 5th, 1795.

To God, most awful, and most High,
Who form'd the earth, the sea, the sky ;
To Him on whom all worlds depend,
Our humbled hearts in sighs ascend.

Will He who hears the ravens cry
Reject our prayers and bid us die?
Will he refuse his help to yield,
Who clothes the lilies of the field?

Pale Famine lifts, at his command,
Her withering arm, and blasts the land;
Death stalks behind, her lingering slave,
And sinks in every step a grave.

But when He smiles the desert blooms;
New life is born among the tombs;
O'er the glad plains abundance teems,
And plenty rolls in bounteous streams.

Father of grace! whom we adore,
Bless thy large family The Poor:
The Poor on thee alone depend;
The Poor Man knows no other friend.

Content to live by toil and pain,
We seek not power, nor thirst for gain;
Thy choicer gifts on others shed,

The Poor Man only asks for Bread.

J. M.

Hymn:

ON LAYING THE FOUNDATION-STONE OF THE SHEFFIELD GENERAL INFIRMARY, October 4th, 1797.

WHEN like a stranger on our sphere,

The lowly Jesus wander'd here,

Where'er he went afliction fled,

And sickness rear'd her fainting head.

The eye that roll'd in irksome night,
Beheld his face,-for God is light;
The opening ear, the loosen'd tongue,
His precepts heard, his praises sung.

With bounding steps the halt and lame
To hail their great deliverer came;
O'er the cold grave he bow'd his head,
And spake the word that raised the dead.

Demoniac madness, dark and wild,
In his inspiring presence smiled;
The storm of horror ceased to roll,
And reason lighten'd through the soul.

Through paths of loving-kindness led,
Where Jesus triumph'd, we will tread;
Like Him with willing hands dispense
The crumbs of our benevolence.

Hark! the sweet voice of Pity calls
Misfortune to these hallow'd walls;
The breaking heart, the wounded breast,
And helpless poverty distrest.

Here the whole family of woe

Shall friends, and home, and comfort know; The blasted form, and shipwreck'd mind,

Shall here a tranquil haven find.

And thou, dread Power, whose sovereign breath Is health or sickness, life or death,

This favour'd mansion deign to bless;

The cause is thine,-O send success.

The Lyre.

"Ah! who would love the Lyre!"

J. M.

W. B. Stephens.

WHERE the roving rill meander'd

Down the green retiring vale,
Poor, forlorn ALCAUS wander'd,

Pale with thought, serenely pale:
Timeless sorrow o'er his face

Breathed a melancholy grace,

And fix'd on ev'ry feature there
The mournful resignation of despair.

O'er his arm, his lyre neglected,
Once his dear companion, hung,
And, in spirit deep dejected,

Thus the pensive poet sung;
While, at midnight's solemn noon,
Sweetly shone the cloudless moon,
And all the stars, around his head,
Benignly bright, their mildest influence shed.

"Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart!
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We must ever, ever part:

For in vain thy poet sings,

Woos in vain thy heavenly strings ;
The Muse's wretched sons are born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scoin.

"That which ALEXANDER sigh'd for,
That which CESAR's soul possess'd,
That which heroes, kings have died for,
Glory!-animates my breast:
Hark! the charging trumpets' throats
Pour their death-defying notes:

To arms!' they call to arms I fly,

Like WOLFE to conquer, and like WOLFE to die!