Adam's Morning Hymn in Paradise. THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then In these thy lowest works; yet these declare And when high Moon, that now meets the orient sun, now fliest, Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, Hymn of The Dunkers. [Kloster Kedar, Ephrata, Pennsylvania, 1738.] WAKE. sisters. wake! the day-star shines; WAbove Ephrata's eastern pines The dawn is breaking, cool and calm. Praised be the Lord for shade and light, Our refuge when the spoiler's hand We praised Him when to prison led, We owned Him when the stake biazed red; He heard our prayers; with outstretched arm He led us forth from cruel harm; His cloud and fire before us went! L The watch of faith and prayer He set; He cometh sure, He cometh soon. Sweep, flaming besom, sweep from sight Quake, earth through all thy zones, till all Lo! rising from the baptismal flame, He cometh soon! at dawn or noon -John Greenleaf Whittier. A Thanksgiving for His House. ORD, thou hast given me a call, Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather-proof, Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry; Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the thresho.d of my door Is worn by the poor, Who hither come and freely get Like as my parlor, so my hall, A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead. Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess, too, when I dine, The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by Thee. The wor s, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent: And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 't is Thy plenty-dropping hand That sows my land: All this, and better, dost Thou send Me for this end: That I should render for my part A thankful heart, Which, fired with incense, I resign As wholly Thine: But the acceptance-that must be, O Lord, by Thee. Robert Herrick. A He Doeth His Alms to Be Seen of Men. POOR little girl in a tattered gown, Wandering alone through the crowded town All weary and worn on the curb sat down, By the side of the way to rest; Bedimmed with tears were her eyes of brown, The night was approaching-the winter's chill blast Now hurriedly passing along the street, Some aid from the passer by; He saw the wind tempest resistlessly whirl The suffering poor to relieve; And held up his check for a thousand at sight, He handed the check to the treasurer, when The paper next morning had much to say So much for the poor man's cause. Near by, the same paper went on to repeat A story they'd heard, of how, out on the street, With only the snow for a winding sheet- Ah! who can declare that when God shall unfold Him guilty of murder, who seeks with his gold, The praises of men, while out in the cold -Anonymous. "M Bread on the Waters. ISTER," the little fellow said, I turned to look at the ragged form, That, in the midst of the pitiless storm, Pinched and haggard and old with care, In accents pleading, was standing there. 'Twas a little boy not twelve years old; He shivered and shook in the bitter cold, His misery struck me dumb; 'Twas a street in a crowded city slum, Where an errand of duty led my feet That day, through the storm and blinding sleet. "Poor little fellow !" at last' I said, 'Have you no father?" "No, he's dead!" 64 The answer came: "You've a mother, then ?" "You are hungry, too?" I asked in pain, And sobbed, as he strove to hide a tear: And lo! from his face the joy had fled. 'What! While they're starving at home!" he said. The tears came rushing-I can't tell why- I slipped a bright new dollar; then said, 'Twas four years ago. But one day last May, As I wandered by chance through East Broadway, A cheery voice accosted me. Lo! 'Twas the self-same lad of years ago, Though larger grown—and his looks, in truth, "Mister," he said, "I'll never forget The kindness you showed when last we met. I work at a trade, and mother is well, So is baby Kate; and I want to tell You this-that we owe it all to you. 'Twas you don't blush, sir-that helped us through In our darkest hour; and we always say Our luck has been better since that day When you sent me home with bread to feed Those starving ones in their hour of need." -George L. Catlin. Memorial Hymn---J. A. Garfield. N Wither we come in gloom WOW all ye flowers make room; To make a mighty tomb, Sighing and weeping. Grand was the life he led; Wise was each word he said; But with the noble dead We leave him sleeping. Soft may his body rest As on his mother's breast, 'Mid blinding tears; -David Swing. Hymn of the Hebrew Maid. HEN Israel, of the Lord beloved, WHE Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame, 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, |