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If I ask him to receive me,

Will he say me nay? "Not till earth, and not till heaven

Pass away.”

With sounds seraphic ring : Lend, lend your wings ! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

ALEXANDER POPE.

PRAYER

Finding, following, keeping, struggling,

Is he sure to bless ?
“Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs,

Answer, Yes."
From the Latin of ST. STEPHEN THE SABAITE.

Translation of JOHN MASON NEALE.

TO HEAVEN APPROACHED A SUFI

SAINT.

To heaven approached a Sufi Saint,

From groping in the darkness late, And, tapping timidly and faint,

Besought admission at God's gate. Said God, “Who seeks to enter here?"

“ 'T is I, dear Friend," the Saint replied, And trembling much with hope and fear.

“If it be thou, without abide."

O GOD! though sorrow be my fate,
And the world's hate

For my heart's faith pursue me,
My peace they cannot take away ;
From day to day

Thou dost anew imbue me ;
Thou art not far ; a little while
Thou hid'st thy face, with brighter smile

Thy father-love to show me.
Lord, not my will, but thine, be done ;
If I sink down

When men to terrors leave me,
Thy father-love still warms my breast ;
All's for the best ;

Shall man have power to grieve me,
When bliss eternal is my goal,
And thou the keeper of my soul,

Who never will deceive me?
Thou art my shield, as saith the Word.
Christ Jesus, Lord,

Thou standest pitying by me,
And lookest on each grief

of mine And if 't were thine :

What, then, though foes may try me, Though thorns be in my path concealed ? World, do thy worst ! God is my shield !

And will be ever nigh me.
Translated froin MARY, QUEEN OF HUNGARY

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THE MARTYRS' HYMN.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

VITAL spark of heavenly Alame !
Quit, О quit this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
0, the pain, the bliss of dying !
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Flung to the heedless winds,

Or on the waters cast, The martyrs' ashes, watched,

Shall gathered be at last ; And from that scattered dust,

Around us and abroad, Shall spring a plenteous seed

Of witnesses for God.

Hark! they whisper ; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, cau this be death?
The world recedes ; it disappears !
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears

The Father hath received

Their latest living breath ;
And vain is Satan's boast

Of victory in their death ;
Still, still, though dead, they speak,

And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim
To many a wakening land
The one availing name.

From the German of MARTIN LUTHER

Translation of W. J. FOX.

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Faithe of the fathers olde Obtained right witness, Which makes me verye bolde To fear no worldes distress.

I now rejoice in harte,
And hope bides me do so;
For Christ wil take my part,
And ease me of my wo.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more

bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide ;
“Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?"

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his

state
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

Thou sayst, Lord, whoso knocke,
To them wilt thou attende ;
Undo, therefore, the locke,
And thy stronge power sende.

MILTON.

More enemies now I have Than heeres upon my head ; Let them not me deprave, But fight thou in my steade.

SAID I NOT SO?

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Thy God hath not denied thee all,
Whilst he permits thee but to call.
Call to thy God for grace to keep

Thy vows; and if thou break them, weep. Weep for thy broken vows, and vow again : Vows made with tears cannot be still in vain.

Then once again
I vow to mend my ways ;

Lord, say Amen,
And thine be all the praise.

GEORGE HERBERT.

Sang as little children sing ;

Sang as sing the birds in June ; Fell the words like light leaves down

On the current of the tune, “Rock of ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in thee."

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HEAVEN. O BEAUTEOUS God ! uncircumscribed treasure Of an eternal pleasure ! Thy throne is seated far Above the highest star, Where thou preparest a glorious place, Within the brightness of thy face, For every spirit To inherit That builds his hopes upon thy merit, And loves thee with a holy charity. What ravished heart, seraphic tongue, or eyes Clear as the morning rise, Can speak, or think, or see That bright eternity, Where the great King's transparent throne Is of an entire jasper stone ? There the eye O'the chrysolite, And a sky Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase, And above all thy holy face, Makes an eternal charity. When thou thy jewels up dost bind, that day Remember us, we pray, That where the beryl lies, And the crystal 'bove the skies, There thou mayest appoint us place Within the brightness of thy face, And our soul In the scroll Of life and blissfulness enroll, That we may praise thee to eternity. Allelujah !

JEREMY TAYLOR.

“Let me hide myself in thee :"

Felt her soul no need to hide, Sweet the song as song could be,

And she had no thought beside ; All the words unheedingly

Fell from lips untouched by care, Dreaming not that they might be

On some other lips a prayer, “Rock of ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in thee.” “Rock of ages, cleft for me,”

'T was a woinan sung them now, Pleadingly and prayerfully;

Every word her heart did know. Rose the song as storm-tossed bird

Beats with weary wing the air, Every note with sorrow stirred,

Every syllable a prayer, “Rock of ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee." “Rock of ages, cleft for me,"

Lips grown agèıl sing Trustingly and tenderly,

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim “Let me hide myself in Thec.'

Trembling though the voice and low, Rose the sweet strain peacefully

Like a river in its flow; Sung as only they can sing

Who life's thorny path have passed ; Sung as only they can sing

Who behold the promised rest, “ Rock of ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in thee."

the hymn

“ROCK OF AGES."

"Such hymns are never forgotten. They cling to us through our whole life. We carry them with us upon our journey. We sing them in the forest. The workman follows the plough with sacred songs. Children catch them, and singing only for the fu; it gives them now, are yet laying up for all their life food of the sweetest joy." — HENRY WARD BRECHER.

** Rock of ages, cleft for me,”

Thoughtlessly the maiden sung.
Fell the words unconsciously

From her girlish, gleeful tonguo ;

“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”

Sung above a coffin lid ; Underneath, all restfully,

All life's joys and sorrows hid. Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul !

Nevermore from wind or tide, Nevermore from billow's roll,

Wilt thou need thyself to hide. Could the sightless, sunken eyes,

Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips

Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye still, the words would be,

Let me hide myself in Thee."

PROF. EDWARD H. RICE

THE SPIRIT-LAND.

“ONLY WAITING."

(A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doing

now. He replied, "Only waiting.")

FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand,
Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed ;
Around us ever lies the enchanted land,
In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed.
In finding thee are all things round us found ;
In losing thee are all things lost beside ;
Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound ;
And to our eyes the vision is denied.
We wander in the country far remote,
Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell ;
Or on the records of past greatness dote,
And for a buried soul the living sell ;
While on our path bewildered falls the night
That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.

JONES VERY.

ONLY waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown ; Till the night of earth is faded

From the heart, once full of day ; Till the stars of heaven are breaking

Through the twilight soft and gray

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home, For the summer time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers ! gather quickly

The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered,

And I hasten to depart.

HEAVEN.

BEYOND these chilling winds and gloomy skies,

Beyond death's cloudy portal,
There is a land where beauty never dies,

Where love becomes immortal;

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate, At whose feet I long have lingered,

Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear the footsteps,

And their voices far away ; If they call me, I am waiting,

Only waiting to obey.

A land whose life is never dimmed by shade,

Whose fields are ever vernal ;
Where nothing beautiful can ever fade,

But blooms for aye eternal.

We may not know how sweet its balmy air,

How bright and fair its flowers ; We may not hear the songs that echo there,

Through those enchanted bowers.

Only waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown. Then from out the gathered darkness,

Holy, deathless stars shall rise, By whose light my soul shall gladly

Tread its pathway to the skies.

The city's shining towers we may not see

With our dim earthly vision, For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key That

opes the gates elysian.

FRANCIS LAUGHTON MACB.

THE SOUL.

But sometimes, when adown the western sky

A fiery sunset lingers,
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly,

Unlocked by unseen fingers.

And while they stand a moment half ajar,

Gleams from the inner glory Stream brightly through the azure vault afar,

And half reveal the story.

COME, Brother, turn with me from pining

thought And all the inward ills that sin has wrought ;

send abroad a love for all who live, And feel the deep content in turn they give. Kind wishes and good deeds, they make not

poor ; They 'll home again, full laden, to thy door ; The streams of love flow back where they begin, For springs of outward joys lie deep within.

Even let them flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow-men. Shouldst thou be

sad,

O land unknown! O land of love divine !

Father, all-wise, eternal ! 0, guide these wandering, wayworn feet of mine

Into those pastures vernal !

NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST.

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER

And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, How many smiles ? - a score ? press

Then laugh, and count no more ;
Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness

For day is dying !
More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear
The music of those waters running near ;

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,

And no more measure And thine eye gladden with the playing beam

The flight of time, nor weep That now upon the water dances, now

The loss of leisure; Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.

But here, by this lone stream,
Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell Lie down with us, and dreain
The power that wrought so beautiful a spell ?

Of starry treasure !
In thine own bosom, Brother? Then as thine
Guard with a reverent fear this power divine.

We dream. : do thou the same ;
And if, indeed, 't is not the ontward state,

We love, — forever ; But temper of the soul by which we rate

We laugh, yet few we shame,
Sadness or joy, even let thy bosom move

The gentle never.
With noble thoughts and wake thee into love ; Stay, then, till sorrow dies ;
And let each feeling in thy breast be given

Theu — hope and happy skies
An honest aim, which, sanctified by Heaven,

Are thine forever!
And springing into act, new life imparts,
Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.

(Barry Cornwall.)
Sin clouds the mind's clear vision ;
Around the self-starved soul has spread a dearth.
The earth is full of life; the living Hand

TELL ME, YE WINGÈD WINDS. Touched it with life ; and all its forms expand With principles of being made to suit

Tell me, ye winged winds, Man's varied powers and raise him froin the

That round my pathway roar, brute.

Do ye not know some spot And shall the earth of higher ends be full,

Where mortals weep no more ? Earth which thou tread'st, – and thy poor mind

Some lone and pleasant dell, be dull ?

Some valley in the west, Thou talk of life, with hall thy soul asleep?

Where, free from toil and pain, Thon “living dead man," let thy spirit leap

The weary soul may rest ? Forth to the day, and let the fresh air blow

The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, Through thy soul's shut-up mansion. Wouldst And sighed for pity as it answered, — "No."

thou know Something of what is life, shake off this death ; Tell me, thou mighty deep, Have thy soul feel the universal breath

Whose billows round me play, With which all nature's quick, and learn to be

Know'st thou some favored spot, Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see ;

Some island far away, Break from thy body's grasp, thy spirit's trance ;

Where weary man may find Give thy soul air, thy faculties expanse ;

The bliss for which he sighs, Love, joy, even sorrow, – yield thyself to all !

Where sorrow never lives, They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall. And friendship never dies? Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, To dust and sense, and set at large the mind ! Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer, Then move in sympathy with God's great whole,

"No." And be like man at first, a living soul.

And thou, serenest moon,

That, with such lovely face,
Dost look upon the earth,

Asleep in night's embrace ;
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.

Tell me, in all thy round

Hast thou not seen some spot
Sit down, sad soul, and count

Where miserable man
The moments flying ;

May find a happier lot ?
Come, tell the sweet amount

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in vet,
That's lost by sighing!

And a voice, sweet but sad, responded, -"Na

RICHARD HENRY DANA.

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