Full many a soul, to man's dim praise unknown,

May on its glory-throne

As brightly shine, and prove as strong in prayer,

As theirs, whose separate beams shoot keenest through this air.

My child, even now I see thy tender breath
Full quickly come and go

At sound of praise. O may the touch of Faith
Those chords so fine and low

Early controul, and tune thy heart too high

For aught beneath the sky.

So may that little spark of glory swell

To a full orb, and soar with loftiest Saints to dwell.

VIII. Lessons of Grace.

1.

ISAAC ON MORIAH.

"Abide you here with the ass, and I and the lad will go yonder and worship."

DREAD was the mystery on Moriah's hill:

Low on the ridge the cloud of morning lay: From each dark fold, along each gliding rill, Strange whispers from the mountain met our way.

But we must wait below, and upward gaze,

While toward the mount the father and the son
Pursue their course, soon in that awful haze
To vanish, till the appointed deed be done.

So when the Lord for some parental heart
Prepares a martyr's crown, He calls on high
Father and child, in His still shrine apart

To learn His lore of healing agony.

We may but stay without, and wondering pray;
Unknown to us that deep of love and woe,
The knife in Abraham's hand upraised to slay,
Meek Isaac bound and waiting for the blow.

Weak as the echo of some distant knell,

Borne now and then on breathing winds of eve, Comes to our ear the sound :-"I see full well The fire and wood; but who the Lamb will give?"

Fitful and faint, should Angel bless our dream,
The memory now would fleet and now abide.
Such to our hearts the stern sweet form may seem
Of him who said, "The Almighty will provide."

Not even to dwellers on the mystic height,

Not to the Saints, is full enlightening given: The Cross, they hold by, towers beyond their sight, On the hill peak opens a deeper heaven.

Yea, though in one were gathered all the woes
That mourners e'er on household altars laid,
Widows' and orphans' tears, untimely throes,

Fears, that the memory of loved souls o'ershade,

What were it all, to match one drop of Thine,

One bitter drop, poured on Thy mountain here

In Thine own hour? O joy! that Blood is mine :— For us it flowed, even as for Saint and seer.

Well may we mourn our dull cold heart, and eye
That up the mount of glorious sacrifice

Sees such a little way: yet kneel we nigh:
Turn not away: let prayer in gloom arise.

He who beside His own the cross allows
Of penitential grief;-who to each Saint
Calls from His height of woe; His bleeding brows
Will meekly droop to hear our breathing faint.

2.

SONG OF THE MANNA-GATHERERS.

"This is the bread which the Lord hath given you to eat."

COMRADES, haste! the tent's tall shading

Lies along the level sand

Far and faint the stars are fading

O'er the gleaming western strand.

Airs of morning

Freshen the bleak burning land.

Haste, or ere the third hour glowing

With its eager thirst prevail

O'er the moist pearls, now bestrowing

Thymy slope and rushy vale,

Dews celestial,

Left when earthly dews exhale.