PSALM XVI.

George Burgess

Thy saints on earth, th' exalted few,
With them my joy is found:
On all who other paths pursue
Shall thorny griefs abound.

I will not pour the blood they bear,
Where thy pure altar flames:
I will not stain my lip in pray'r
With their polluted names.

The Lord my gracious portion lends,
And makes my cup o'erflow;
And thy strong pow'r the lot defends,
Which thy kind gifts bestow.

My lines are fall'n mid all delight,
A region large and fair:
Therefore I muse through wakeful night,
And praise the Lord's dear care.

I deem the Lord before me still,
At my right hand, to aid;
And joys my heart, unmov'd by ill,
And triumphs, undismay'd.

My flesh shall rest in silent hope,
For thou my soul shalt free,
Thine holy one's dark chamber ope,
And bid corruption flee;

And on the path of life shalt guide,
And to thy presence bring,
Where gladness pours its swelling tide,
And ceaseless pleasures spring.