Then with a ripple and a radiance through me
Rise and be manifest, O Morning Star!
Flow on my soul, thou Spirit, and renew me,
Fill with thyself, and let the rest be far.

Safe to the hidden house of thine abiding

Carry the weak knees and the heart that faints; Shield from the scorn and cover from the chiding; Give the world joy, but patience to the saints.

Saints, did I say? with your remembered faces, Dear men and women, whom I sought and slew! Ah, when we mingle in the heavenly places, How will I weep to Stephen and to you !

O for the strain that rang to our reviling

Still, when the bruised limbs sank upon the sod; O for the eyes that looked their last in smiling, Last on this world here, but their first on God!

Surely he cometh, and a thousand voices

Shout to the saints and to the deaf are dumb; Surely he cometh, and the earth rejoices,

Glad in his coming who hath sworn, I come. This hath he done, and shall we not adore him? This shall he do, and can we still despair? Come, let us quickly fling ourselves before him, Cast at his feet the burden of our care,

Flash from our eyes the glow of our thanksgiving,
Glad and regretful, confident and calm;
Then through all life and what is after living
Thrill to the tireless music of a psalm.

And he will come in his own time and power

To set his earnest-hearted children free:
Watch only through this dark and painful hour,

In the old garden of Gethsemane,

When that calm voice awoke the weary sleeper: "Couldst thou not watch one hour alone with me?"

O thou, so weary of thy self-denials!
And so impatient of thy little cross,
Is it so hard to bear thy daily trials,

To count all earthly things a gainful loss?

What if thou always suffer tribulation,
And if thy Christian warfare never cease;
The gaining of the quiet habitation
Shall gather thee to everlasting peace.

But here we all must suffer, walking lonely
The path that Jesus once himself hath gone :
Watch thou in patience through the dark hour
only,

This one dark hour, - before the eternal dawn.

The captive's oar may pause upon the galley,
The soldier sleep beneath his plumèd crest,
And Peace may fold her wing o'er hill and valley,
But thou, O Christian! must not take thy rest.

Thou must walk on, however man upbraid thee,
With Him who trod the wine-press all alone;
Thou wilt not find one human hand to aid thee,
One human soul to comprehend thine own.

Heed not the images forever thronging
From out the foregone life thou liv'st no more;
Faint-hearted mariner! still art thou longing
For the dim line of the receding shore.

Canst thou forget thy Christian supersciption,
"Behold, we count them happy which endure"?
What treasure wouldst thou, in the land Egyptian,
Repass the stormy water to secure?

Poor, wandering soul! I know that thou art seeking
Some easier way, as all have sought before,
To silence the reproachful inward speaking, —
Some landward path unto an island shore.

O, that thy faithless soul, one great hour only, Would comprehend the Christian's perfect life;

THE SOUL'S CRY.

ANONYMOUS.

Tears idle tears I know not what they mean,

,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart & gather to the eyes

In looking

And thinking

on the happy Autumn fields, on the

days

that are no more.

They

turned to the Earth, but she frowns

on

her child; they turned to the Sea, and he smiled as of old : Iweeten was the peril of the breakers white and wild, Sweeter han the land, with its bondage and gold!

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and, in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I
still

A lover of the meadows, and the woods,
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

NATURE.

THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by,
Because my feet find measure with its call;
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh,
For I am known to them, both great and small.
The flower that on the lonely hillside grows
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given;
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven ;
For he who with his Maker walks aright,
Shall be their lord as Adam was before;
His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.
JONES VERY.

TINTERN ABBEY.

I HAVE learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity,

Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power

CORRESPONDENCES.

HEXAMETERS AND PENTAMETERS.

ALL things in nature are beautiful types to the soul that reads them;

Nothing exists upon earth but for unspeakable

ends;

Every object that speaks to the senses was meant for the spirit;

Nature is but a scroll; God's handwriting

thereon.

Ages ago, when man was pure, ere the flood overwhelmed him,

While in the image of God every soul yet lived, Everything stood as a letter or word of a language familiar,

Telling of truths which now only the angels can read.

Lost to man was the key of those sacred hiero

glyphics,

Stolen away by sin, till Heaven restored it; Now with infinite pains we here and there spell

out a letter,

Here and there will the sense feebly shine through the dark.