Lord! with the barren service spent,
To Thee my suppliant knee I bent ;
And found in Thee a Father's grace,
His hand, His heart, His faithfulness,
The voice of peace, the smile of love,
The bread which feeds the saints above;
And tasted in this world of woe,

A joy its children never know.

ANON.

The Son of David Comes.

THE

HE air is filled with shouts and trumpets sounding;

A host are at thy gates, Jerusalem.

Now is their van the Mount of Olives rounding; Above them Judah's lion-banners gleam, Twined with the palm and olive's peaceful stem. Now swell the nearer sounds of voice and string, As down the hill-side pours the living stream: And to the cloudless heaven Hosannas ring"The Son of David comes! the Conqueror-the King!"

The cuirassed Roman heard, and grasped his shield,

And rushed in fiery haste to gate and tower: The pontiff from his battlement beheld

The host, and knew the falling of his power:

He saw the cloud on Sion's glory lour,
Still down the marble road the myriads come,
Spreading the way with garment, branch, and
flower,

And deeper sounds are mingling: "Woe to
Rome!

The day of freedom dawns; rise, Israel, from thy tomb."

Temple of beauty-long that day is done;
Thy ark is dust; thy golden cherubim
In the fierce triumphs of the foe are gone;
The shades of ages on thy altars swim.
Yet still a light is there, though wavering dim!
And has its holy lamp been watched in vain?
Or lives it not until the finished time,

When He who fixed, shall break his people's chain,

And Sion be the loved, the crowned of God again?

He comes, yet with the burning bolt unarmed; Pale, pure, prophetic, God of Majesty! Though thousands, tens of thousands round him swarmed,

None durst abide the depth divine of eye; None the waving of his robe draw nigh, But at his feet was laid the Roman's sword: There Lazarus knelt to see his King pass by; There Jairus, with his age's child, adored. "He comes, the King of kings; Hosanna to the Lord!"

GEORGE CROLY.

The Heart's Holy Temple.

THOUGH glorious, O God! must thy temple

have been,

On the day of its first dedication,

When the cherubims' wings widely waving were

seen

On high, o'er the ark's holy station;

When even the chosen of Levi, though skilled To minister standing before Thee,

Retired from the cloud which the temple then filled,

And thy glory made Israel adore Thee;

Though awfully grand was thy majesty then,
Yet the worship thy Gospel discloses,
Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men,
Far surpasses the ritual of Moses.

And by whom was that ritual for ever repealed
But by Him, unto whom it was given
To enter the Oracle, where is revealed,
Not the cloud but the brightness of heaven.

Who having once entered, hath shown us the

O Lord! how to worship before Thee; Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day,

But in spirit and truth to adore Thee!

way,

This, this is the worship the Saviour made known, When she of Samaria found him

By the patriarch's well sitting weary, alone, With the stillness of noon-tide around Him.

How sublime, yet how simple, the homage He taught,

To her who inquired by that fountain,

If Jehovah at Solyma's shrine would be sought,
Or adored on Samaria's mountain.

"Woman! believe me, the hour is near,
When He, if ye rightly would hail Him,
Will neither be worshipped exclusively here,
Nor yet at the altar of Salem.

"For God is a spirit! and they who aright

Would perform the pure worship He loveth, In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight, That spirit the Father approveth." BERNARD BARTON.

Thoughts on a Summer's Evening. "TIS past! the sultry tyrant of the south Has spent his short-liv'd rage: more grateful hours

Move silent on the skies no more repel
The dazzled sight; but, with mild maiden beams
Of temper'd light, invite the cherish'd eye
To wander o'er their sphere; where, hung aloft,
Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow
New strung in heav'n, lifts high its beamy horns,
Impatient for the night, and seems to push
Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines,
Ev'n in the eye of day; with sweetest beam

Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood
Of soften'd radiance from her dewy locks.
The shadows spread apace; while meeken❜d Eve,
Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires
Through the Hesperian gardens of the west,
And shuts the gates of day. 'Tis now the hour
When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts,
The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth
Of unpierc'd woods, where, wrapt in silent shade,
She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon,
And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun,
Moves forward; and with radiant finger points
To
yon blue concave swell'd by breath divine,
Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven,
Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of æther
One boundless blaze; ten thousand trembling
fires,

And dancing lustres, where the unsteady eye,
Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfin'd
O'er all this field of glories: spacious field,
And worthy of the Master! he whose hand
With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile,
Inscrib'd the mystic tablet, hung on high
To public gaze; and said, Adore, O man,
The finger of thy God! From what pure wells
Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn,
Are all these lamps so fill'd? these friendly lamps,
For ever streaming o'er the azure deep
To point our path and light us to our home.
How soft they slide along their lucid spheres!
And, silent as the foot of time, fulfil

Their destin'd courses: Nature's self is hush'd,