He will forsake thee, oh! never,

Sheltered so tenderly there!
Haste then, the hours are flying,
Spend not the moments in sighing,
Cease from your sorrow and crying,

The Saviour will wipe every tear.

SOFTLY NOW THE LIGHT OF DAY.

Softly now the light of day
Fades upon my sight away;
Free from care, from labor free,
Lord, I would commune with thee.
Thou, whose all-pervading eye
Naught escapes, without, within,
Pardon each infirmity,

Open fault, and secret sin.

Soon, for me, the light of day
Shall forever pass away;

Then, from sin and sorrow free,
Take me, Lord, to dwell with thee.

Thou who, sinless, yet hast known
All of man's infirmity;

Then, from thine eternal throne,
Jesus, look with pitying eye.

COME, HOLY SPIRIT.

Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly dove,
With all thy quickening powers,
Kindle a flame of sacred love,
In these cold hearts of ours.
See how we grovel here below,
Fond of these earthly toys:
Our souls how heavily they go
To reach eternal joys.

In vain we tune our lifeless songs,
In vain we strive to rise;

Hosannas languish on our tongues,
And our devotion dies.

Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly dove,
With all thy quickening powers,
Come, shed abroad a Saviour's love,
And that shall kindle ours.

STILL, STILL WITH THEE.

Still, still with thee-when purple morning breaketh, When wake the birds, and all the shadows flee; Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight, Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with thee!

When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber,
Its closing eye looks up to thee in prayer,
Sweet the repose beneath thy wings o'ershading,
But sweeter still to wake and find thee there.
So shall it be at last, in that bright morning,
When the soul waketh, and life's shadows flee;
Oh! in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning,
Shall rise the glorious thought—I am with thee.

THE WATER INTO WINE.

Thy glory thou didst manifest, O Christ, by miracle divine, When, at thy word, for ev'ry guest the water sparkled into wine; And now, in all the sons of men who feel thy Spirit's quick’ning

breath,

The miracle is wrought again, as life is kindled out of death.

What festal raptures fill our hearts when heaven and earth are married there!

What hope, what love, the Lord imparts! what tenderness and strength of prayer!

For then within his glory glows; and gifts and graces all divine Again that miracle disclose of water glorified in wine.

Oh, Christ, unfold thy quick'ning might from day to day, that all may see

Within each saint, still beaming bright, thy glorious Epiphany; And find that best of wine at last, the sweetest gift of grace out

poured,

Richer than Cana's humble feast, the marriage supper of the Lord.

158.—TO-MORROW.

ANONYMOUS.

A bright little boy with laughing face,
Whose every motion was full of grace,

Who knew no trouble, and feared no care,

Was the light of our household—the youngest there.

He was too young, this little elf,

With troublesome questions to vex himself;
But for many days a thought would arise,
And bring a shade to the dancing eyes.

He went to one whom he thought more wise
Than any other beneath the skies;
"Mother"-oh, word that makes the home!—
"Tell me, when will to-morrow come?"

When you wake up and it's day again,
It will be to-morrow, my darling, then."

The little boy slept through all the night,
But woke with the first red streaks of light;
He pressed a kiss on his mother's brow,
And whispered, "Is it to-morrow now?"
"No, little Eddie, this is to-day;

To-morrow is always one night away.'
He pondered awhile, but joys came fast,
And the vexing question quickly passed.

But it came again with the shades of night;
"Will it be to-morrow when it is light?"

From years to come he seemed care to borrow,
He tried so hard to catch to-morrow.

"You cannot catch it, my little Ted:
Enjoy to-day," the mother said:

"Some wait for to-morrow through many a year—
It always is coming, but never is here.'

159.—THE PASSING OF ARTHUR.
ALFRED TENNYSON.

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight.
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."

So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,

And would have spoken, but he found not words;
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

But, as he walked, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the king, Muttering and murmuring at his ear "Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die."

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked, Larger than human on the frozen hills.

He heard the deep behind him, and a cry

Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.

Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves

And barren chasms, and all to left and right

The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of arméd heels-
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.
Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms,
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream-by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold-and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,

And, as it were one voice, an agony

Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills

All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come. since the making of the world.

Then murmured Arthur, " Place me in the barge;" So to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all

And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,

And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against his brow. * *

So like a shatter'd column lay the king;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.

But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years.
Among new men, strange faces, other minds."

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,

If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way.
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst-if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—–
To the island-valley of Avilion ;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull

Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

160. MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

WM. COWPER.

Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last: Those lips are thine-thine own sweet smile I see, The same, that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,

"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize-
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,

I will obey, not willingly alone,