Hark, hark, it seems to say,
As melt the sounds away,
So life's best joys decay,
Whilst new their feeling.

2 Now through the charmed air,
Slowly ascending,
List to the chanted prayer,
Solemnly blending.

Hark, hark, it seems to say -
Turn from earth's joys away,
To those which ne'er decay,
Though life is ending.

[118 & 12s.]

1 I WOULD not live alway, I ask not to stay,
Where storm after storm rises o'er the dark way;
The few lucid moments that dawn on us here,
Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer.

I Would not Live Alway.*

TUNE-" See So. Choir, vol. 1. p. 81.

2 I would not live alway; no-welcome the tomb;
Since Jesus has lain there, I dread not its gloom;
There, sweet be my rest, till he bid me arise,
To hail him in triumph descending the skies.

3 Who, who would live alway, away from his God; Away from yon heaven that blissful abode, Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright


And the noon-tide of glory eternally reigns.


4 Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet;

*Vide Job. vii. 16.

While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll,
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul.


Invocation for Celestial Light.


1 0 THOU, whose power o'er moving worlds presides,
Whose voice created and whose wisdom guides,
On darkling man, in pure effulgence shine,
And cheer the clouded mind with light divine.



2 'Tis thine alone to calm the pious breast, With silent confidence and holy rest;

From Thee, great God, we spring, to Thee we tend; Path, Motive, Guide, Original and End.


The Voice of Mercy.*


[88, 78 & 4s.]

1 TRAVELLER! dost thou hear the tidings
Borne unto thy weary ear,
Soft as angel's gentlest whispers,
Breathing from the upper sphere,
Sweetly telling,

Thy redemption now is near?

2 In the desert's gloomy terrors,

'Mid the tempest's booming roar, Hark! the still small voice of mercy,

*This beautiful hymn was dictated by Dr. Woodhull to a friend, during his last illness, and but a short time previous to his decease.



Breaking from yon peaceful shore,
Sweetly telling,
All thy toil will soon be o'er.

3 Mortal! when death's viewless arrow,
Quivers in thy fluttering heart,
Lift thy earnest thoughts to Jesus,
Who disarms the fatal dart;
Sweetly telling,

I, to thee my peace impart.

Valle Crucis.*


[L. M.]

Vide Nason's "Vocal Class Book," p. 78. 1 VALE of the Cross, the Shepherds tell, 'Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell, For there are sainted shadows seen, That frequent haunt the dewy green.

AIR-"Silver Lake."

2 In wandering winds the dirge is sung,
The convent bell with spirits rung,
And matin hymns and vesper prayer,
Break softly on the tranquil air.

3 Vale of the Cross, the Shepherds tell
'Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell,
For peace has there her spotless throne,
And pleasure to the world unknown —

4 The murmurs of the distant rills,
The Sabbath silence of the hills;
And all the quiet God hath given,
Without the golden gates of heaven.


*Valley of the Cross.

↑ Author of the "Life of Leo Xth," and other valuable works.



AIR-" Sul margin d'un rio." Phillips.

[C. M.]

1 I LOVE to steal awhile away,
From every cumbering care,
And spend the hours of setting day,
In humble, grateful prayer.

2 I love in solitude to shed
The penitential tear;
And all his promises to plead,
Where none but God is near.

3 I love to think on mercies past,
And future good implore;
And all my cares and sorows cast
On him whom I adore.


4 Thus when life's toilsome day is o'er,
May its departing ray
Be calm as this impressive hour,
And lead to endless day.

God is Love.


[L. P. M.]


1 THE humblest flower that decks the vale,
The gloomiest cypress of the grove
The breath of heaven their leaves inhale,

And whisper back that "God is love."
Streams speak His praises as they flow,
And winds soft hallelujah's blow.

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[C. M.]


TUNE-" Thy will be done."


Vide Kingsley's "Social Choir," vol. 1.

1 How sweet to be allowed to pray
To God, the holy One,

With filial love and trust to say,
"O God, thy will be done.”

2 We in these sacred words can find
A cure for every ill;

They calm and soothe the troubled mind,
And bid all care be still.

3 O, let that will which gave me breath,
And an immortal soul,

In joy or grief, in life or death,
My every wish control.

4 O, could my heart thus ever pray,
Thus imitate Thy Son!
Teach me, O God, with truth to say,
Thy will, not mine, be done.

Morning Hymn.


[L. M.]

1 AWAKE, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;
Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise
To pay thy morning sacrifice.

TUNE-" Park Street."

* Authoress of the "Well-Spent Hour," etc.

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