I would frame all my doings to please thee, my God! 
’Tis from thee all my mercies proceed;
I would frame all my doings to serve thee, my God! 
For thy service is freedom indeed.

I would frame all my doings to please thee, my God! 
But how feeble my best efforts are;
Ah! how needful for me is thy chastening rod,
And a proof of thy fatherly care.

I would frame all my doings to serve thee, my God! 
But my goodness extends not to thee;
And when on well doing I’m fully intent,
Alas! evil is present with me.

My Creator, Preserver, Redeemer and King,
I would tax all my powers to obey;
But to Him let me look for the help that I need,
Who is the life, the light, and the way.

Weston, Jan. 21, 1853.

“TAKE NO THOUGHT FOR THE MORROW.”

Take no thought for the morrow, the Saviour hath said,
And he spake as ne’er man spake before;
“He carried our sorrows,” “was acquainted with grief,”
And knew well what the heart could endure.

Let the morrow take care for the things of itself,
And not by its weight crush thee down;
Sufficient to-day is the evil thereof,
Let the ills of to-morrow alone.

Neither boast of to-morrow, for what is thy life,
But a vapor that floateth away;
Like a tale quickly told, or a dream of the night,
That departs at the breaking of day.

Be not like the man who once said in his heart,
“I have goods that are laid by for years;”
But scarce had he planned how they best might be stored,
When he dies and leaves all to his heirs.

Neither dread then, nor boast of to-morrow, my soul,
But make most of the time that’s now given;
Be the ground well prepared, with good seed sown thereon,
And ’twill yield a rich harvest in heaven.

Jan. 24, 1853.

REMINISCENCES OF THE DEPARTED.

His mission soon accomplished,
His race on earth soon run,
He passed to realms of glory,
Above the rising sun.

So beautiful that infant,
When in death’s arms he lay;
It seemed like peaceful slumber,
That morn might chase away.

But morning light was powerless,
Those eyelids to unclose;
And sunshine saw and left him,
In undisturbed repose.

The light of those blue orbs
That drank the sunbeams in,
Now yields to night, and darkness
Holds undisputed reign.

That little form so graceful,
The light brown chestnut hair;
Those half formed words when uttered,
That face so sweet and fair;

All, all his ways so winning,
Were impotent to save
His life, when called to yield it
By Him that life who gave.

So soon his voyage ended,
The passage home so short,
Before he knew of evil,
He entered safe the port.