A revised and enlarged edition of Dr. Clarke's "Service Book" was published in 1852, under the title of "Disciples' Hymn-Book," a marked feature of which was the presence of not less than twenty-eight of the hymns of another gifted English writer of sacred songs, Thomas Hornblower Gill, eight of them having been previously introduced into Hedge and Huntington's Collection. In Dr. Clarke's books are some very fine, noble hymns of his own, which we here copy, together with several others by him from Griswold's "Poets of America." The first three are taken from Griswold, and those which follow from the edition of Dr. Clarke's Hymn-Book, published in 1852.

HYMN AND PRAYER.

INFINITE Spirit! who art round us ever,

In whom we float, as motes in summer sky, May neither life nor death the sweet bond sever, Which joins us to our unseen Friend on high.

Unseen, yet not unfelt, if any thought

Has raised our mind from earth, or pure desire, A generous act, or noble purpose brought,

It is thy breath, O Lord, which fans the fire.

To me the meanest of thy creatures, kneeling,
Conscious of weakness, ignorance, sin, and shame,
Give such a force of holy thought and feeling,
That I may live to glorify thy name;

That I may conquer base desire and passion,
That I may rise o'er selfish thought and will,
O'ercome the world's allurement, threat, and fashion,
Walk humbly, softly, leaning on thee still.

I am unworthy. Yet, for their dear sake

I ask, whose roots planted in me are found; For precious vines are propped by rudest stake, And heavenly roses fed in darkest ground.

Beneath my leaves, though early fallen and faded,

Young plants are warmed, they drink my branches' dew:

Let them not, Lord, by me be Upas-shaded;

Make me, for their sake, firm, and pure, and true.

For their sake, too, the faithful, wise, and bold,

Whose generous love has been my pride and stay, Those who have found in me some trace of gold, For their sake purify my lead and clay.

And let not all the pains and toil be wasted,

Spent on my youth by saints now gone to rest; Nor that deep sorrow my Redeemer tasted,

When on his soul the guilt of man was pressed.
Tender and sensitive, he braved the storm,

That we might fly a well-deserved fate,
Poured out his soul in supplication warm,
With eyes of love looked into eyes of hate.
Let all this goodness by my mind be seen,
Let all this mercy on my heart be sealed!
Lord, if thou wilt, thy power can make me clean :
O, speak the word, – thy servant shall be healed.

JACOB'S WELL.

Suggested by a sketch of Jacob's well, and Mt. Gerizim.

ERE, after Jacob parted from his brother,

HER

His daughters lingered round this well, new made;

Here, seventeen centuries after, came another,

And talked with Jesus, wondering and afraid.
Here, other centuries past, the emperor's mother
Sheltered its waters with a temple's shade.
Here, 'mid the fallen fragments, as of old,
The girl her pitcher dips within its waters cold.

And Jacob's race grew strong for many an hour,
Then torn beneath the Roman eagle lay;
The Roman's vast and earth-controlling power

Has crumbled, like these shafts and stones, away;

But still the waters, fed by dew and shower,

Come up, as ever, to the light of day,

And still the maid bends downward with her urn,
Well pleased to see its glass her lovely face return.

And those few words of truth, first uttered here,
Have sunk into the human soul and heart;
A spiritual faith dawns bright and clear,

Dark creeds and ancient mysteries depart; The hour for God's true worshippers draws near; Then mourn not o'er the wrecks of earthly art: Kingdoms may fall, and human works decay, Nature moves on unchanged, Truths never pass away.

THE VIOLET.

Written for a little girl to speak on May-Day, in the character of the Violet.

WHEN April's warmth unlocks the clod,

Softened by gentle showers,

The violet pierces through the sod,
And blossoms, first of flowers;
So may I give my heart to God
In childhood's early hours.

Some plants, in gardens only found,
Are raised with pains and care:
God scatters violets all around,

They blossom everywhere;

Thus may my love to all abound,

And all my fragrance share.

Some scentless flowers stand straight and high,

With pride and haughtiness:

But violets perfume land and sky,
Although they promise less.

Let me, with all humility,

Do more than I profess.

Sweet flower, be thou a type to me
Of blameless joy and mirth,
Of widely scattered sympathy,
Embracing all God's earth, -

Of early-blooming piety,

And unpretending worth.

THE PRODIGAL.

BROTHER, hast thou wandered far From thy Father's happy home,

With thyself and God at war?

Turn thee, brother, homeward come!

Hast thou wasted all the powers
God for noble uses gave?

Squandered life's most golden hours?
Turn thee, brother, God can save!

Is a mighty famine now

In thy heart and in thy soul?

Discontent upon thy brow?

Turn thee, God will make thee whole!

Fall before him on the ground,

Pour thy sorrow in his ear; Seek him, for he may be found; Call upon him; He is near.

BAPTISM OF A CHILD.

TO thee, O God in heaven,
This little one we bring,

Giving to thee what thou hast given,
Our dearest offering.

Into a world of toil

These little feet will roam,

Where sin its purity may soil,
Where care and grief may come.

O, then, let thy pure love,

With influence serene,

Come down, like water, from above,

To comfort and make clean.

BAPTISM OF CHILDREN.

TO him who children blessed,

And suffered them to come,

To him who took them to his breast,
We bring these children home.

To thee, O God, whose face
Their spirits still behold,

We bring them, praying that thy grace
May keep, thine arms enfold.

And as this water falls

On each unconscious brow,
Thy holy Spirit grant, O Lord!

To keep them pure as now.

FEAST OF THE REFORMATION.

This hymn, as it was sung at the Collation given by the Unitarians of New York and Brooklyn to the members of the Convention assembled in the former city, Oct. 22, 1845, had two additional stanzas, not printed here.

FOR all thy gifts we praise thee, Lord,

With lifted song and bended knee;

But now our thanks are chiefly poured
For those who taught us to be free.

For when the soul lay bound below

A heavy yoke of forms and creeds,
And none thy word of truth could know,
O'ergrown with tares and choked with weeds,

Thy strength, O Lord, in that dark night,
By mouths of babes thou didst ordain ;
And thy free truth went forth with might,
Not empty to return again.

The monarch's sword, the prelate's pride,
The Church's curse, the empire's ban,

By one poor monk were all defied,
Who never feared the face of man.