"Though envied place I may not claim
On warrior's crest, or lady's hair;
Though tongue may never speak my name,
Nor eye behold and own me fair;

To Him, who tends me from the sky,
I spread my beauties here on high,
And bid the winds to waft above
My incense to His throne of love.

"And though in hermit solitude,

Aloft and wild, my home I choose,
On the rock's bosom pillowed rude,
And nurtured by the falling dews;
Yet duly with the opening year
I hang my golden mantle here.
A child of God's I am, and He

Sustains, and clothes, and shelters me.

"Nor deem my state without its bliss :
Mine is the first young smile of day;
Mine the light zephyr's earliest kiss;
And mine the skylark's matin lay.
These are my joys: with these on high
In peace I hope to live and die,

And drink the dew, and scent the breeze,
As blithe a flower as Flora sees.”

Bloom on, sweet moralist! Be thine

The softest shower, the brightest sun! Long o'er a world of error shine,

And teach them what to seek and shun!

Bloom on, and show the simple glee
That dwells with those who dwell like thee;
From noise, and glare, and folly driven,
To thought, retirement, peace, and Heaven.

Show them, in thine, the Christian's lot,
So dark and drear in worldly eyes;

And yet he would exchange it not

For all they most pursue and prize.
From meaner cares and trammels free,
He soars above the world, like thee;
And, fed and nurtured from above,
Returns the debt in grateful love.

Frail, like thyself, fair flower, is he,
And beat by every storm and shower ;
Yet on a Rock he stands, like thee,

And braves the tempest's wildest power.
And there he blooms, and gathers still
A good from every seeming ill;

And, pleased with what his lot has given,
He lives to God, and looks to Heaven.

F. S.

SWIM through the waves of Time, and ne'er despair, But lift thy head, and breathe eternal air.

Whatsoever your sickness is, know you certainly, that it is God's visitation.

SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

W

EPHESIANS III. 13.

7. Keble.

́ISH not, dear friends, my pain away—

Wish me a wise and thankful heart,

With God, in all my griefs to stay,

Nor from His loved correction start.

The dearest offering He can crave
His portion in our souls to prove,
What is it to the gift He gave,

The only Son of His dear love?

But we, like vexed unquiet sprights,
Will still be hovering o'er the tomb,
Where buried lie our vain delights,
Nor sweetly take a sinner's doom.

In Life's long sickness evermore
Our thoughts are tossing to and fro:
We change our posture o'er and o'er,
But cannot rest, nor cheat our woe.

Were it not better to lie still,

Let Him strike home and bless the rod, Never so safe as when our will

Yields undiscerned by all but God?

Thy precious things, whate'er they be
That haunt and vex thee, heart and brain,
Look to the Cross, and thou shalt see

How thou mayest turn them all to gain.

Lovest thou praise? the Cross is shame:
Or ease? the Cross is bitter grief:
More pains than tongue or heart can frame
Were suffered there without relief.

We of that altar would partake,

But cannot quit the cost—no throne Is ours, to leave for Thy dear sake— We cannot do as Thou hast done.

We cannot part with Heaven for Thee—
Yet guide us in Thy track of love:
Let us gaze on where light should be,
Though not a beam the clouds remove.

So wanderers ever fond and true

Look homeward through the evening sky, Without a streak of Heaven's soft blue To aid Affection's dreaming eye.

The wanderer seeks his native bower,
And we will look and long for Thee,
And thank Thee for each trying hour,
Wishing, not struggling, to be free.

That your faith may be found in the day of the Lord laudable, glorious, and honourable, to the increase of glory and endless felicity.

J

ERUSALEM! that place divine,

Drummond.

The vision of sweet peace is named,
In Heaven her glorious turrets shine,
Her walls of living stones are framed;
While angels guard her on each side,
Fit company for such a bride.

She, decked in new attire, from Heaven
Her wedding chamber, now descends;
Prepared in marriage to be given

To Christ, on whom her joy depends.
Her walls, wherewith she is enclosed,
And streets are of pure gold composed.

The gates, adorned with pearls most bright,
The way to hidden glory show;
And thither, by the blessed might
Of faith in Jesus' merits go