COME, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of Harvest Home!
All is safely gathered in,

Ere the winter storms begin:
God our Maker doth provide
For our wants to be supplied:
Come to God's own temple, come,
Raise the song of Harvest Home!

2 We ourselves are God's own field,
Fruit unto his praise to yield:
Wheat and tares together sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown:
First the blade, and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear:
Grant, O Harvest-Lord, that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be!

3 For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take his harvest home:
From his field shall in that day
All offences purge away:
Give his angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast:
But the fruitful ears to store
In his garner evermore.

4 Then, thou Church Triumphant, come, Raise the song of Harvest Home!

All are safely gathered in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin:

THOU who roll'st the year around,
Crowned with mercies large and free,
Rich thy gifts to us abound,

Warm our praise shall rise to thee.
Kindly to our worship bow,
While our grateful thanks we tell,
That, sustained by thee, we now
Bid the parting year-farewell!

2 All its numbered days are sped,
All its busy scenes are o'er,
All its joys for ever fled,

All its sorrows felt no more.
Mingled with the eternal past,
Its remembrance shall decay;
Yet to be revived at last

At the solemn judgment-day.

3 All our follies, Lord, forgive! Cleanse us from each guilty stain; Let thy grace within us live,

That we spend not years in vain. Then, when life's last eve shall come, Happy spirits, may we fly

To our everlasting home,

To our Father's house on high!

Ray Palmer.

2 As the wingéd arrow flies

Speedily the mark to find; As the lightning from the skies Darts, and leaves no trace behind, Swiftly thus our fleeting days

Bear us down life's rapid stream;
Upward, Lord, our spirits raise,
All below is but a dream.

3 Thanks for mercies past receive;
Pardon of our sins renew;
Teach us henceforth how to live,
With eternity in view:
Bless thy word to young and old;
Fill us with a Saviour's love;
And, when life's short tale is told,
May we dwell with thee above!

1150

John Newton.

Independence Day. SWELL the anthem, raise the song; Praises to our God belong; Saints and angels join to sing

Praises to the heavenly King.

Blessings from his liberal hand
Flow around this happy land:
Kept by him, no foes annoy;
Peace and freedom we enjoy.

2 Here, beneath a virtuous sway
May we cheerfully obey;
Never feel oppression's rod,
Ever own and worship God.
Hark! the voice of nature sings
Praises to the King of kings;
Let us join the choral song,
And the grateful notes prolong.

Nathan Strong.

PRAISE to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days!
Bounteous Source of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ.
For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield;
For the fruits in full supply,
Ripened 'neath the summer sky;-

2 All that spring with bounteous hand Scatters o'er the smiling land;

All that liberal autumn pours
From her rich, o'erflowing stores;
These to thee, my God, we owe,
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.

Mrs. Anna L. Barbauld.

1152 National.

LORD! while for all mankind we pray, Of every clime and coast,

Oh, hear us for our native land,

The land we love the most.

2 Oh, guard our shores from every foe,
With peace our borders bless,
With prosperous times our cities crown,
Our fields with plenteousness.

3 Unite us in the sacred love

Of knowledge, truth, and thee: And let our hills and valleys shout The songs of liberty.

4 Here may religion, pure and mild, Smile on our Sabbath hours;

And piety and virtue bless

The home of us and ours.

5 Lord of the nations, thus to thee
Our country we commend;

Be thou her refuge and her trust,
Her everlasting friend.

John R. Wreford.

THEE We adore, eternal Name!

And humbly own to thee

How feeble is our mortal frame,
What dying worms are we!

2 The year rolls round, and steals away
The breath that first it gave;
Whate'er we do, where'er we be,
We're traveling to the grave.

3 Great God! on what a slender thread Hang everlasting things!

The eternal state of all the dead
Upon life's feeble strings!

4 Infinite joy, or endless woe,
Attends on every breath;

And yet, how unconcerned we go
Upon the brink of death!

MELITA. L. M. 61.

J. B. DYKES.