THE RESTING-PLACE.

As palmers wont to hail the niched seat
At desert well, where they put off the shoon
And robe of travel, so I, a pilgrim as they,
Tired with my six-days' track, would turn aside
Out of the scorch and glare into the shade
Of Sunday-stillness. Resting. I would listen
Gladdened to the gurgle of the hidden stream,
Till every fevered throb grew calm through

peace.

So sitting, that perfectest repose should steal Inward, which disillusionizes sense,

And leaves the spirit, unhindered of the flesh,
Free to forget itself in dreams of heaven.

I would inhale the bracing, zested air
That vivifies the soul and lifts it up

To saintly heights: and to my lips that crave
Refreshment cooler than lies ever staled
In cisterns choked by weedy worldliness,
I'd carry in my scallop of faith, the water
That gushes from the Smitten Rock. And
thus

Strengthened I would take up my staff again,
And with reanimate and quickened step,
Sing Benedicite, and go on my way.
MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

AN HOSANNA FOR THE LORD'S

DAY.

PSALM CXviii.

THIS is the day the Lord hath made,
He calls the hours his own;
Let heaven rejoice, let earth be glad,
And praise surround the throne.
To-day he rose and left the dead,
And Satan's empire fell ;

To-day the saints his triumphs spread,
And all his wonders tell.

THE SEVENTH DAY OF CREATION.

THOMAS WHYTEHEAD, a graduate of St. John's College, Cambridge, was born in York County, England, Nov. 30, 1815, and died in New Zealand, where he had gone as chaplain to Bishop Selwyn, in October, 1843. He was first principal of the college that the bishop established there, and among his latest works translated Bishop Ken's Evening Hymn into Maori.

SABBATH of the saints of old,
Day of mysteries manifold;
By the great Creator blest,
Type of his eternal rest :

I with thoughts of thee would seek
To sanctify the closing week.

Resting from his work, the Lord
Spake to-day the hallowing word;
And, his wondrous labors done,
Now the everlasting Son
Gave to heaven and earth the sign
Of a wonder more divine.

Resting from his work to-day,
In the tomb the Saviour lay,

His sacred form from head to feet
Swathed in the winding-sheet,
Lying in the rock alone,

Hid beneath the sealed stone.

All the seventh day long I ween
Mournful watched the Magdalene,
Rising early, resting late,
By the sepulchre to wait,
In the holy garden glade
Where her buried Lord was laid.

So with thee till life shall end
I would solemn vigil spend ;
Let me hew thee, Lord, a shrine
In this rocky heart of mine,
Where in pure embalmed cell
None but thou mayst ever dwell.

Myrrh and spices I will bring,
My poor affection's offering,

Close the door from sight and sound
Of the busy world around,
And in patient watch remain
Till my Lord appear again.

Then, the new creation done,
Shall be thy endless rest begun ;
Jesu, keep me safe from sin,
That I with them may enter in,
And danger past, and toil at end,
To thy resting-place ascend.

THOMAS WHYTEHEAD.

Where gospel light is glowing
With pure and radiant beams,
And living water flowing
With soul-refreshing streams.
New graces ever gaining,
From this our day of rest,
We reach the rest remaining
To spirits of the blest;
To Holy Ghost be praises,
To Father and to Son;
The Church her voice upraises
To thee, blest Three in One.
CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH, D. D.

1842.

1862.

A LORD'S DAY.

O DAY of rest and gladness,
O day of joy and light,
O balm of care and sadness,

Most beautiful, most bright; On thee, the high and lowly, Through ages joined in tune, Sing, Holy, Holy, Holy,

To the great God Triune.

On thee, at the creation,

The light first had its birth; On thee, for our salvation,

Christ rose from depths of earth; On thee, our Lord victorious

The Spirit sent from heaven, And thus, on thee most glorious, A triple light was given.

Thou art a port protected

From storms that round us rise. A garden intersected

With streams of paradise; Thou art a cooling fountain,

In life's dry, dreary sand; From thee, like Pisgah's mountain, We view our promised land.

Thou art a holy ladder,

Where angels go and come:
Each Sunday finds us gladder,
Nearer to heaven, our home.
A day of sweet refection
Thou art, a day of love,
A day of resurrection
From earth to things above.

To-day on weary nations

The heavenly manna falls: To holy convocations

The silver trumpet calls,

The next world's gladness prepossest in this;
A day to seek;

Eternity in time; the steps by which
We climb above all ages; lamps that light
Man through his heap of dark days; and the rich
And full redemption of the whole week's flight!

The pulleys unto headlong man; time's bower;
The narrow way;

Transplanted paradise; God's walking hour; The cool o' the day!

The creature's jubilee; God's parle with dust Heaven here; man on those hills of myrrh and flowers;

Angels descending; the returns of trust:
A gleam of glory after six-days-showers!
The church's love-feasts; time's prerogative,
And interest

Deducted from the whole: the combs and hive.
And home of rest.

The milky way chalkt cut with suns; a clue. That guides through erring hours; and in full story

A taste of heaven on earth; the pledge and cue Of a full feast; and the out-courts of glory. 1651

SUNDAY.

HENRY VAUGHAN,

O TIME of tranquil joy and holy feeling!
When over earth God's Spirit from above
Spreads out his wings of love!

When sacred thoughts, like angels, come appealing

To our tent doors; O eve, to earth and heaven

The sweetest of the seven !

How peaceful are thy skies! thy air is clearer, As on the advent of a gracious time:

The sweetness of its prime

Blesseth the world, and Eden's days seem

nearer:

569

Like sunlight o'er this silent life of mine,
Yea, on each beauteous morning I saw shine,
I have remembered these your words, rejoiced
And been glad in it. So, o'er many-voiced
Tumultuous harmonies of tropic seas,
Which chant an everlasting farewell grand
Between ourselves and you and the old land,
Receive this token: many words chance-sown
May oftentimes have taken root and grown,
To bear good fruit perennially, like these.
The Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman."

1872.

THE DAY OF REST.

RETURN, thou wished and welcome guest, Thou day of holiness and rest; The best, the dearest of the seven, Emblem and harbinger of heaven! Though not the bridegroom, at his voice, Friend of the bridegroom, still rejoice. Day, doubly sanctified and blessed, Thee the Creator crowned with rest; From all his works, from all his woes, On thee the Saviour found repose. Thou dost, with mystic voice, rehearse The birthday of an universe: Prophet, historian, both, in scope Thou speak'st to memory and to hope. Amidst the earthliness of life, Vexation, vanity, and strife, Sabbath! how sweet thy holy calm Comes o'er the soul, like healing balm Comes like the dew to fainting flowers, Renewing her enfeebled powers. Thine hours, how soothingly they glide, Thy morn, thy noon, thine eventide!

;

All meet as brethren, mix as friends; Nature her general groan suspends; No cares the sin-born laborers tire; E'en the poor brutes thou bid'st respire: 'Tis almost as, restored awhile, Earth had resumed her Eden smile. I love thy call of earthly bells, As on my waking ear it swells; I love to see thy pious train Seeking in groups the solemn fane; But most I love to mingle there In sympathy of praise and prayer, And listen to that living word, Which breathes the spirit of the Lord; Or, at the mystic table placed, Those eloquent mementos taste Of thee, thou suffering Lamb divine, Thy soul-refreshing bread and wine; Sweet viands given us to assuage The faintness of the pilgrimage.

Severed from Salem, while unstrung His harp on pagan willows hung, What wonder if the Psalmist pined, As for her brooks the hunted hind! The temple's humblest place should win Gladlier than all the pomp of sin; Envied the unconscious birds that sung, Around those altars, o'er their young: And deemed one heavenly Sabbath worth More than a thousand days of earth; Well might his harp and heart rejoice To hear, once more, that festal voice: "Come, brethren, come with glad accord, Haste to the dwelling of the Lord."

But if on earth so calm, so blest, The house of prayer, the day of rest; If to the spirit when it faints, So sweet the assembly of the saints; There let us pitch our tents (we say), For, Lord, with thee 't is good to stay! Yet from the mount we soon descend, Too soon our earthly Sabbaths end; Cares of a work-day will return, And faint our hearts, and fitful, burn; Oh, think, my soul! beyond compare, Think what a Sabbath must be there, Where all is holy bliss, that knows Nor imperfection, nor a close; Where that innumerable throng Of saints and angels mingle song; Where, wrought with hands, no temples rise, For God himself their place supplies; Nor priests are needed in the abode Where the whole hosts are priests to God. Think what a Sabbath there shall be, The Sabbath of eternity!

THOMAS GRINFIELD.

THE SABBATH.

SIR EDWARD GEORGE LYTTON BULWER-LYTTON, an English novelist of note, and a poet of less distinction, was born in Norfolk, in 1805, and died Jan. 18, 1873.

FRESH glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

Six days' stern labor shuts the poor
From Nature's careless banquet-hall ;
The seventh an angel opes the door,
And, smiling, welcomes all!

A Father's tender mercy gave
This holy respite to the breast,

To breathe the gale, to watch the wave,
And know the wheel may rest!