Yea more, with His own hand He seemed Crossed all the fair designs I schemed, "Lord, why is this?" I trembling cried, That thou mayest seek thy all in Me." NEWTON. Mine is an Unchanging Love. HA ARK, my soul! it is the Lord; 'Tis thy Saviour, hear His word; Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee; "Say, poor sinner,-lovest thou me? "I delivered thee when bound, And, when wounded, healed thy wound; "Mine is an unchanging love, "Thou shalt see my glory soon, Lord, it is my chief complaint, Oh! for grace to love Thee more! WILLIAM COWPER. My Wounded Spirit longs to fly. 0, HAPPY, happy he, who flies Far from the noisy world away,Who, with the worthy and the wise, Hath chosen the narrow way,— The silence of the secret road That leads the soul to virtue and to God! No passions in his breast arise: Calm in his own unaltered state, He smiles superior, as he eyes The splendour of the great; He heeds not, though the trump of fame To spread the glory of his name; And his high soul disdains That flattery's voice should varnish o'er The deed that truth or virtue would abhor. Such lot be mine: what boots to me To chase an empty shape of air, That leaves me weak with toil and worn with care? O streams, and shades, and hills on high, Unto the stillness of your breast My wounded spirit longs to fly,— Thus from the world's tempestuous sea, Be mine the holy calm of night, Soft sleep and dreams serenely gay, Far from the sternly frowning eye The warbling birds shall bid me wake Like the sad shapes that hover still Be mine my hopes to Heaven to give, To taste the bliss that Heaven bestows, Alone and for myself to live, And 'scape the many woes That human hearts are doomed to bear, The pangs of love, and hate, and hope, and fear. A garden by the mountain-side Is mine, whose flowery blossoming Shows, even in spring's luxuriant pride, What autumn's suns shall bring: And from the mountain's lofty crown A clear and sparkling rill comes trembling down; Then pausing in its downward force The venerable trees among, It gurgles on its winding course; Gives freshness to the day, and pranks The whisper of the balmy breeze Scatters a thousand sweets around, And sweeps in music through the trees, With an enchanting sound, That laps the soul in calm delight, Where crowns and kingdoms are forgotten quite. Theirs let the dear-bought treasure be, Who in a treacherous bark confide; I stand aloof, and changeless see The changes of the tide, Nor fear the wail of those that weep, When angry winds are warring with the deep: Day turns to night; the timbers rend; As the sad merchant throws His hoards, to join the stores that lie Mine be the peaceful board of old, And glittering baubles be, Who builds his baseless hope of gain Be gayly chanting in the secret shade,— At ease within the shade reclined, And my attentive ear inclined To catch the heavenly sound Of harp or lyre, when o'er the strings LUIS PONCE DE LEON, Trans. Anon. My Life, my Joy, my Strength, my All! THOU great Power! in whom I Whilst on this couch of tears I lie; move, |