WE

HY M N.

HEN I survey the bright
Celestial sphere,

So rich with jewels hung, that night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear,

My soul her wings doth spread,
And heavenward flies,

The Almighty mysteries to read
In the large volume of the skies.

For the bright firmament
Shoots out no flame

So silent, but is eloquent

In speaking the Creator's name.

Wm. Habbington.

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER ADVENT.

CATHEDRAL HYMN.

ISE, like an altar-fire!

RISE

In solemn joy aspire,

Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind

Bear up from humankind

Thanks and implorings-be they not in vain !

Father, which art on high!

Weak is the melody

Of harp or song to reach Thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,

Winging the words of prayer,

With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.

Let, then, Thy Spirit brood

Over the multitude

Be Thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest:

So shall their cry have power

To win from Thee a shower

Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.

What griefs, that make no sign,
That ask no aid but Thine,

Father of Mercies! here before Thee swell,
As to the open sky,

All their dark waters lie

To Thee reveal❜d, in each close bosom-cell.

The sorrow for the dead,
Mantling its lonely head

From the world's glare, is, in Thy sight, set free. And doth not Thy dread eye

Behold the agony

In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,

Beside the secret source

Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?

Yes! here before Thy throne,
Many-yet each alone-

To Thee that terrible unveiling make;
And still small whispers clear

Are startling many an ear,
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.

Where shall the guilty flee?

Over what far-off sea?

What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?

Not to the cedar-shade

Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea.
What, but the Cross, can yield

The hope the stay-the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee!

Be Thou, be Thou his aid!
Oh! let thy love pervade

The haunted caves of self-accusing thought;
There let the living stone

Be cleft-the seed be sown

The song of fountains from the silence brought!

So shall Thy breath once more
Within the soul restore

Thine own first image-Holiest and Most High!
As a clear lake is fill'd

With hues of heaven, instill'd Down to the depths of its calm purity.

Thanks for each gift divine!
Eternal praise be Thine,

Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!
Let the hymn pierce the sky,

And let the tombs reply!

For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.

Keble.

THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT.

"He that judgeth me is the Lord."—1 Cor. iv. 1.

ILLIONS of feet entraversed here

MILLIC
M Where are their parted spirits?

Each in a dark or glorious sphere
Its own reward inherits:

Where they are fled we soon shall fly,
And join them in eternity.

The crowds who earth's arena tread,
Each busy in his station,

Are few compared with all the dead
Of every age and nation.

The world of life counts millions o'er,-
That of the dead hath many more.

It is a solemn thought that we,
Life's little circle rounded,
Must launch upon that endless sea,

Which shore hath never bounded,

A sea of happiness and love,
Or depths below, and clouds above.

A Holy Judge-a righteous doom-
A bar where none dissemble—
A short, quick passage to the tomb-
How should we stop and tremble!
Great God, as years pass swiftly by,
Write on each heart-Thou, thou must die!