Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me: Since God is ever present, ever felt,

In the void waste as in the city full;

And where He vital spreads, there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go
Where universal love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns;
From seeming evil still adducing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression.—But I lose
Myself in Him, in light ineffable!

Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise.

JAMES THOMSON.

Hymn of the Waldenses. HEAR, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock; While those, who seek to slay thy children, hold Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold; And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airs That nurse the grape and wave the grain are theirs. Yet better were this mountain wilderness, And this wild life of danger and distress— Watchings by night and perilous flight by day, And meetings in the depths of earth to pray,

Better, far better, than to kneel with them,
And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn.

Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder; the firm land
Tosses in billows when it feels thy hand;
Thou dasheth nation against nation, then
Stillest the angry world to peace again.

O, touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons-
The murderers of our wives and little ones.

Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forth
Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth,
Then the foul power of priestly sin and all
Its long-upheld idolatries shall fall.

Thou shalt raise up the trampled and oppressed,
And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest.

W. C. BRYANT.

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamount.

HA

AST thou a charm to stay the Morning-star
In his steep course? So long he seems to
pause

On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth the silent Sea of Pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,

Withheld the fuel from the fire,
And crossed each foolish, fond desire ?

How oft didst Thou my soul withhold,
And baffle my pursuit of fame,
And mortify my lust of gold,

And blast me in my surest aim;
Withdraw my animal delight,
And starve my grovelling appetite!
Thou wouldst not let Thy captive go,
Or leave me to my carnal will;
Thy love forbad my rest below,

Thy patient love pursued me still;
And forced me from my sin to part,
And tore the idol from my heart.
But can I now the loss lament,

Or murmur at Thy friendly blow? Thy friendly blow my heart hath rent From every seeming good below: Thrice happy loss! which makes me see My happiness alone in Thee.

MANY

God's Language.

WESLEY.

are the thoughts that come to me

In my lonely musing;

And they drift so strange and swift,

There's no time for choosing

Which to follow, for to leave

Any, seems a losing.

When they come, they come in flocks,
As, on glancing feather,
Startled birds rise one by one,
In autumnal weather,
Waking one another up

From the sheltering heather.

Some so merry that I laugh,
Some are grave and serious,
Some so trite, their least approach
Is enough to weary us:
Others flit like midnight ghosts,
Shrouded and mysterious.

There are thoughts that o'er me steal,
Like the day when dawning;
Great thoughts wing'd with melody,
Common utterance scorning,

Moving in an inward tune,

And an inward morning.

Some have dark and drooping wings,

Children all of sorrow;

Some are as gay, as if to-day

Could see no cloudy morrow,

And yet like light and shade they each
Must from the other borrow.

One by one they come to me

On their destined mission; One by one I see them fade

With no hopeless vision; For they've led me on a step To their home Elysian.

K

C. P. CRANCH.

Hail! to the Day.

HAIL to the day, which He, who made the

heaven,

Earth, and their armies, sanctified and blest, Perpetual memory of the Maker's rest! Hail to the day, when He, by whom was given New life to man, the tomb asunder riven,

Arose! That day his Church doth still confess, At once Creation's and Redemption's feast, Sign of a world called forth, a world forgiven. Welcome that day, the day of holy peace,

The Lord's own day! to man's Creator owed, And man's Redeemer; for the soul's increase In sanctity, and sweet repose bestowed; Type of the rest when sin and care shall cease, The rest remaining for the loved of God! BISHOP MANT.

THES

Hymn on the Seasons.

HESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these, Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields: the softening air is balm; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the Summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun