FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT.

H, Thou, whom neither time nor space
Can circle in, unseen, unknown,

Nor faith in boldest flight can trace,
Save through Thy Spirit and Thy Son!

And Thou that, from Thy bright abode
To us in mortal weakness shown,
Didst graft the manhood into God
Eternal, co-eternal Son!

And Thou, whose unction from on high
By comfort, light, and love is known!
Who, with the Parent Deity,

Dread Spirit! art for ever one!

Great First and Last! Thy blessing give!
And grant us faith, Thy gift alone,

To love and praise Thee while we live,

And do whate'er Thou wouldst have done!

R. Heber.

THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES.

"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever;-it may be a sound-

A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring-
A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may wound-
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound."

Childe Harold.

HE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to

THE Waken

Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken
From some bright former state, our own no more;
Is not this all a mystery?-Who shall say
Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends
their way?

The sudden images of vanished things

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why;
Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings,
Warm sunset-hues of summers long gone by;
A rippling wave, the dashing of an oar-
A flower-scent floating past our parents' door;

A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;
A smile-a sunny or a mournful glance,
Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown:
Are not these mysteries, when to life they start,
And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread;

And wakening, buried love, or joy, or fear— 'hese are night's mysteries-who shall make them clear?

And the strange, unborn sense of coming ill,
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast
In a low tone, which nought can drown or still,
'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest:
When doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?
Why shakes the spirit thus ?-'tis mystery all!

Darkly we move-we press upon the brink
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not:
Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think
Are those whom death has parted from our lot!
Fearfully, wondrously our souls are made—
Let us walk humbly on—but undismay'd.

Humbly-for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind:
Yet undismay'd-for do they not reveal
Th' immortal being with our dust entwined—
So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake
Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.

SUNDAY NEXT BEFORE EASTER.

TH

VIA CRUCIS VIA LUCIS.

HROUGH night to light-and though to mortal eyes

Creation's face a pall of horror wear

The gloom of midnight flies,

Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair.

Through storm to calm-and though His thunder

car

The rumbling tempest drive through earth and skyThe elemental war

Tells that a blessed healing hour is nigh.

Through frost to spring-and though the biting blast

Of Eurus stiffen nature's juicy veins

When winter's wrath is past,

Soft murmuring spring breathes sweetly o'er the plains.

Through strife to peace-and though with bristling front,

A thousand frightful deaths encompass thee-
Brave thou the battle's brunt

For the peace-march and song of victory.

Through toil to sleep-and though the sultry noon With heavy drooping wing oppress thee nowThe cool of evening soon

Shall lull to sweet repose thy weary brow.

Through cross to crown-and though thy spirit's life

Trials untold assail with giant strength

Soon ends the bitter strife,

And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length.

Through woe to joy-and though at morn thou weep,

And though the midnight find thee weeping stillThe Shepherd loves His sheep:

Resign thee to the watchful Father's will.

Through death to life-and through this vale of tears,

And through this thistle-field of life, ascend
To the great supper in that world whose years
Of bliss unfading, cloudless, know no end.

STRIVE-WAIT-AND PRAY.

TRIVE―yet I do not promise

STR

The prize you dream of to-day
you

Will not fade, when think to grasp it,
And melt in your hands away;

But another and holier treasure

You would now, for chance, disdain,

toil is over,

And pay you for all your pain.

Wait-yet I do not tell you

The hour you long for now