And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see;

And closely caressing

Her child with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering to

thee."

SAMUEL LOVER.

HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID.

HEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,

Out from the land of bondage came,
Her father's God before her moved,
An awful guide in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonished lands,
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands
Returned the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answered keen; And Zion's daughters poured their lays,

With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze—

Forsaken Israel wanders lone;

Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And Thou hast left them to their own.

But, present still, though now unseen,
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen,
To temper the deceitful ray.
And O, when stoops on Judah's path

In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath
A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams-
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, trump and horn.
But Thou nast said, The blood of goats,
The flesh of tains, I will not prize--
A contrite heart, and numble thoughts,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.

SIR WALTER Scott.

Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,

Nearer gaining the crown!

But the waves of that silent sea
Roll dark before my sight,
That brightly the other side
Break on a shore of light.

Oh, if my mortal feet

Have almost gained the brink ;
If it be I am nearer home
Even to-day than I think;
Father, perfect my trust;

Let my spirit feel in death,
That her feet are firmly set

On the Rock of a living faith!
PHEBE CARY.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

This ode was composed at the request of Steele, who wrote: "This is to desire of you that you would please to make an ode as of a cheerful, dying spirit; that is to say, the Emperor Adrian's dying address to his soul put into two or three stanzas for music Pope replied with the three stanzas below, and says to Steele in 2 letter: "You have it, as Cowley calls it, warm from the brain. t came to me the first moment I waked this morning."

ITAL spark of heavenly flame,

Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,

Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

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, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears;
Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! Ifly!
Oh, grave! where is thy victory?
Oh, death! where is thy sting?

ALEXANDER POPE

WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?

AY, watchman, what of the night?

Do the dews of the morning fall? Have the orient skies a border of light, Like the fringe of a funeral pall?

"The night is fast waning on high,

And soon shall the darkness flee,

And the morn shall spread o'er the blushing sky, And bright shall its glories be."

But, watchman, what of the night, When sorrow and pain are mine,

And the pleasures of life, so sweet and bright, No longer around me shine?

"That night of sorrow thy soul

May surely prepare to meet,

But away shall the clouds of thy heaviness roll, And the morning of joy be sweet."

But, watchman, what of the night,

When the arrow of death is sped,

And the grave, which no glimmering star can light, Shall be my sleeping bed?

"That night is near, and the cheerless tomb

Shall keep thy body in store,

Till the morn of eternity rise on the gloom, And night shall be no more!"

THE CHANGED CROSS.

T was a time of sadness, and my heart,
Although it knew and loved the better part,
Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife,
And all the needful discipline of life.

And while I thought on these, as given to me,
My trial-tests of faith and love to be,
It seemed as if I never could be sure
That faithful to the end I should endure.

And thus, no longer trusting to his might
Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight,"
Doubting, and almost yielding to despair,
The thought arose, "My cross I cannot bear.

"Far heavier its weight must surely be
Than those of others which I daily see;
Oh! if I might another burden choose,
Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose.".

A solemn silence reigned on all around,
E'en nature's voices uttered not a sound;
The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell,
And sleep upon my weary spirit fell.

A moment's pause-and then a heavenly light
Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight;
Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere,
And angels' music thrilled the balmy air.
Then One, more fair than all the rest to see,
One to whom all the others bowed the knee,
Came gently to me, as I trembling lay.

And, "Follow me," he said; "I am the Way."

Then, speaking thus, he led me far above,
And there, beneath a canopy of love,
Crosses of divers shape and size were seen,
Larger and smaller than my own had been.

And one there was, most beauteous to behold-
A little one, with jewels set in gold.

"Ah! this," methought, "I can with comfort wear, For it will be an easy one to bear."

And so the little cross I quickly took,
But all at once my frame beneath it shook;
The sparkling jewels, fair were they to see,
But far too heavy was their weight for me.

"This may not be," I cried, and looked again,
To see if there was any here could ease my pain;
But, one by one, I passed them slowly by,
Till on a lovely one I cast my eye.

Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined,
And grace and beauty seemed in it combined,
Wondering, I gazed— and still I wondered more,
To think so many should have passed it o'er.
But oh! that form so beautiful to see
Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me;
Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair;
Sorrowing, I said, "This cross I may not bear.”
And so it was with each and all around-
Not one to suit my need could there be found;
Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down
As my Guide gently said, “No cross-no crown.”
At length to him I raised my saddened heart,
He knew its sorrows, bade its doubts depart ;
"Be not afraid," he said, "but trust in me;
My perfect love shall now be shown to thee."
And then, with lightened eyes and willing fees,
| Again I turned, my earthly cross to meet;
With forward footsteps, turning not aside,
For fear some hidden evi: might betide;
And there-in the prepared, appointed way,
Listening to hear, and ready to obey-
A cross I quickly found of plainest form,
With only words of love inscribed thereon.
With thankfulness I raised it from the rest,
And joyfully acknowledged it the best-
The only one, of all the many there,
That I could feel was good for me to bear.
And, while I thus my chosen one confessed,

I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest ;
And as I bent, my burden to sustain,

I recognized my own old cross again.
But oh! how different did it seem to be,
Now I had learned its preciousness to see!
No longer could I unbelieving say,
"Perhaps another is a better way."

Ah, no! henceforth my own desire shall be.
That He who knows me best should choose fr
And so, whate'er His love sees good to send,
I'll trust it's best-because He knows the end.

MRS. CHARLES HOBART,

THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS.

ND is there care in heaven? And is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move?
There is :-else much more wretched were
the case

Of men than beasts: but O the exceeding grace
Of Highest God! that loves His creatures so,
And all His works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels He sends to and fro,
To serve to wicked men, to serve his wicked foe!

How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succor us that succor want!
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant!
They for us fight, they watch, and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant;
And all for love, and nothing for reward;

O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard!
EDMUND Spenser.

THE DYING SAVIOUR.

SACRED Head, now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down; Now scornfully surrounded

With thorns, Thy only crown;

O sacred Head, what glory,
What bliss, till now was Thine!

Yet, though despised and gory,

I joy to call Thee mine.

O noblest brow and dearest,

In other days the world
All feared when Thou appearedst:
What shame on Thee is hurled!
How art Thou pale with auguish,
With sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn!
What language shall I borrow,

To thank Thee, dearest Friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end!
O, make me Thine forever,
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never,
Outlive my love to Thee.

If I, a wretch, should leave Thee,
O Jesus, leave not me!

In faith may I receive Thee,

When death shall set me free.
When strength and comfort languish,
And I must hence depart,
Release me then from anguish,
By Thine own wounded heart.

QU have read of the Moslem palace-
The marvelous fane that stands
On the banks of the distant Jumina,
The wonder of all the lands;

You have read of its marble splendors,
Its carvings of rare device,

Its domes and its towers that glisten
Like visions of paradise.

You have listened as one has told you
Of its pinnacles snowy-fair-
So pure that they seemed suspended
Like clouds in the crystal air;

Of the flow of its fountains falling
As softly as mourners' tears;
Of the lily and rose kept blooming
For over two hundred years;

Of the friezes of frost-like beauty,
The jewels that crust the wall,
The carvings that crown the archway,
The innermost shrine of all-
Where lies in her sculptured coffin,
(Whose chiselings mortal man
Hath never excelled,) the dearest
Of the loves of the Shah Jehan.
They read you the shining legends
Whose letters are set in gems,
On the walls of the sacred chamber
That sparkle like diadems.

And they tell you these letters, gleaming
Wherever the eye may look,

Are words of the Moslem prophet,
Are texts from his holy book.

And still as you heard, you questioned
Right wonderingly, as you must,
"Why rear such a palace, only

To shelter a woman's dust?"

Why rear it?-the Shah had promised

His beautiful Nourmahal

To do it because he loved her,
He loved her-and that was all!

So minaret, wall, and column,
And tower and dome above,
All tell of a sacred promise,
All utter one accent-LOVE.
You know of another temple,
A grander than Hindoo shrine,
The splendor of whose perfections
Is mystical, strange, divine.
So vast is its scale proportioned,
So lofty its turrets rise,

That the pile in its finished glory
Will reach to the very skies.

The lapse of the silent Kedron,
The roses of Sharon fair,
Gethsemane's sacred olives

And cedars are round it there.

And graved on its walls and pillars,

And cut in its crystal stone,

Are the words of our Prophet, sweeter
Than Islam's hath ever known-

Texts culled from the holy Gospel,
That comfort, refresh, sustain,
And shine with a rarer lustre
Than the gems of the Hindoo fane.
The plan of the temple, only

Its Architect understands;
And yet He accepts—(Oh, wonder!)
The helping of human hands!

And so, for the work's progression,
He is willing that great and small
Should bring Him their bits of carving,
So needed, to fill the wall.

Not one does the Master-Builder
Disdainfully cast away:
Why, even He takes the chippings,
We women have brought to-day!
Oh, not to the dead-to the living-
We rear on the earth He trod,

This fane to His lasting glory,

This church to the Christ of God!

Why labor and strive? We have promised
(And dare we the vow recall?)
To do it because we love Him,
We love Him—and that is all!

For over the Church's portal,

Each pillar and arch above, The Master has set one signet, And graven one watchword-LOVE. MARGARET J. PRESTON.

NTO the great vestibule of heaven, God called up a man from dreams, saying, "Come thou hither, and see the glory of my house." And, to the servants who stood around His throne, He said. "Take him, and undress him from his robes of flesh; cleanse his vision, and put a new breath into his nostrils; only touch not with any change his human heart -the heart that weeps and trembles."

It was done; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, the man stood ready for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at once they wheeled away into endless space. Sometimes, with solemn flight of angel wings, they fled through Saharas of darkness-through wildernesses of death, that divided the world of life; sometimes they swept over frontiers that were quickening under the prophetic motions from God.

Then, from a distance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a time through a sleepy film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them; they by unutterable pace to the light. In a moment, the rushing of planets was upon them; in a moment, the blazing of suns was around them.

Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were not revealed. On the right hand and on the left. towered mighty constellations, that by self-repetition and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways--horizontal, upright-rested, rose-at altitudes by spans that seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory the gates.

Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below; above was below-below was above, to the man stripped of gravitating body; depth was swallowed up in height insurmountable; height was swallowed up in

depth unfathomable. Suddenly, as thus they rode from infinite to infinite; suddenly, as thus they tilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose that systems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other heights and other depths, were coming-were nearing -were at hand.

Then the man sighed, and stopped, and shuddered, and wept. His overladen heart uttered itself in tears; and he said, “Angel, I will go no farther; for the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory of God. Let me lie down in the grave, and hide me from the persecutions of the Infinite; for end, I see, there is none."

And from all the listening stars that shone around, issued a choral cry, "The man speaks truly; end there is none that ever yet we heard of." "End is there none?" the angel solemnly demanded: "Is there indeed no end, and is this the sorrow that kills you?" But no voice answered that he might answer himself. Then the angel threw up his glorious hands toward the heaven of heavens, saying, "End is there none to the universe of God! Lo, also there is no beginning!" JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

EAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayerBut all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for griet's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set- but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh death!

We know when moons shall wane,
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain-
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

E was of that stubborn crew

Of arrant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true church militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery,

And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire, and sword, and desolation
A godly, thorough reformation,
Which always must be carried on
And still be doing, never done;
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.
A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss,
More peevish, cross, and splenetic,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick;
That with more care keep holyday
The wrong than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclined to,
By damning those they have no mind to;
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipped God for spite;
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for.

SAMUEL BUTLER

CREATIVE POWER.

HE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim;

The unwearied sun, from day to day,

Does his Creator's power display,

And publishes to every land

The work of an Almighty hand.