Will not come with its radiance vanished,
And a shadow upon its brow.
Yet far through the misty future,
With a crown of starry light,
An hour of joy you know not
Is winging its silent flight.

Pray-tho' the gift you ask for
May never comfort
your fears-
May never repay your pleading-
Yet pray, and with hopeful tears:
An answer-not that you long for,
But diviner-will come some day:
Your eyes are too dim to see it,
Yet strive-and Wait-and Pray.

G

EVENING HYMN.

LORY to Thee, my God, this night, For all the blessings of the light: Keep me, O keep me, King of kings, Under Thy own almighty wings. Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son, The ill that I this day have done, That with the world, myself, and Thee, I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.

Teach me to live-that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed;
Teach me to die-that so I may
Rise glorious at the awful day.

O may my soul on Thee repose,
And balmy sleep mine eyelids close,-
Sleep, that my frame shall vig'rous make,
To serve my God when I awake.

If in the night I sleepless lie,

My soul with heavenly thoughts supply;
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest,
No powers of darkness me molest.
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

THE CONTRITE HEART.

HERE is a holy sacrifice

Which God in heaven will not despise, Nay, which is precious in His eyes

The contrite heart.

That lofty One, before whose throne
The countless hosts of heaven bow down,
Another dwelling-place will own-

The contrite heart.

The Holy One, the Son of God,
His pardoning love will shed abroad,

And consecrate as His abode—

The contrite heart.

The Holy Spirit from on high
Will listen to its faintest cry,
And cheer, and bless, and purify-

The contrite heart.

GOOD FRIDAY.

THE SAVIOUR'S DYING HOUR.”

SON of Man!

In Thy last mortal hour

Shadows of earth closed round Thee fearfully!

*

All that on us is laid,

All the deep gloom,

The desolation and the abandonment,

The dark amaze of death;

All upon Thee, too, fell,
Redeemer! Son of Man!

But the keen pang,

Wherewith the silver cord

Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung;
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick, strong heart;
This, this, the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,
Surely was not for Thee,
Holy one! Son of God!

Yes, my Redeemer !
E'en this cup was Thine!

Fond wailing voices call'd Thy spirit back :
E'en 'midst the mighty thoughts

Of that last crowning hour;

E'en on Thine awful way to victory,
Wildly they call'd Thee back!
And weeping eyes of love
Unto Thy heart's deep core,

Pierced thro' the folds of death's mysterious veil—
Sufferer! thou Son of Man!

Mother-tears were mingled
With Thy costly blood-drops,

In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,-
He that on Thy bosom,

Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain—
He a pale, sad watcher

Met, with looks of anguish,

All the anguish in Thy last meek glance—
Dying Son of Man!

Oh! therefore unto Thee,
Thou that hast known all woes

Bound in the girdle of mortality!

Thou that wilt lift the reed

Which storms have bruised,

To Thee may sorrow through each conflict cry,
And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes

Are passionately bent

To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze, Then, then forsake us not!

Shed on our spirits then

The faith and deep submissiveness of Thine!
Thou that didst love,

Thou that didst weep and die

Thou that didst rise a victor glorified:
Conqueror! thou Son of God!

EASTER EVE.

HE IS DESPISED AND REJECTED OF MEN."

T

READ softly, bow the head,

In reverent silence bow;

No passing bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
There's One in that poor shed-
One by that paltry bed-
Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state;
Enter, no crowds attend-
Enter, no guards defend
This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,
No smiling courtier treads ;
One silent woman stands,

Lifting, with meagre hands,
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound-
An infant's wail alone;

A sob suppress'd-again

That short, deep gasp-and then

The parting groan.