"T is but the cloudy darkness dense,
That wrapt the Mount around;
While in amaze the people stays,
To hear the Coming Sound.

Some chosen prophet-soul the while
Shall dare, sublimely meek,
Within the shroud of blackest cloud
The Deity to seek :
Mid atheistic systems dark,

And darker hearts' despair,

That soul has heard perchance his word, And on the dusky air,

His skirts, as passed He by, to see

Hath strained on their behalf, Who on the plain, with dance amain, Adore the Golden Calf.

"T is but the cloudy darkness dense;

Though blank the tale it tells,
No God, no Truth! yet He, in sooth,
Is there, within it dwells;
Within the sceptic darkness deep

He dwells that none may see,
Till idol forms and idol thoughts
Have passed and ceased to be:
No God, no Truth! ah though, in sooth,
So stand the doctrine's half;
On Egypt's track return not back,
Nor own the Golden Calf.

Take better part, with manlier heart,
Thine adult spirit can:

No God, no Truth, receive it ne'er-
Believe it ne'er-O Man!
But turn not then to seek again

What first the ill began;

No God, it saith; ah, wait in faith God's self-completing plan; Receive it not, but leave it not, And wait it out, O man!

The Man that went the cloud within Is gone and vanished quite; "He cometh not," the people cries, "Nor bringeth God to sight": "Lo these thy gods, that safety give, Adore and keep the feast!" Deluding and deluded cries

The Prophet's brother-Priest:
And Israel all bows down to fall
Before the gilded beast.

Devout, indeed! that priestly creed,
O Man, reject as sin!
The clouded hill attend thou still,
And him that went within.

243

He yet shall bring some worthy thing
For waiting souls to see;
Some sacred word that he hath heard
Their light and life shall be;
Some lofty part, than which the heart
Adopt no nobler can,

Thou shalt receive, thou shalt believe,
And thou shalt do, O Man!

FROM THE "BOTHIE OF TOBER-NAVUOLICH."

WHERE does Circumstance end, and Prov. idence, where begins it?

What are we to resist, and what are we to be friends with?

If there is battle 't is battle by night; I stand in the darkness,

Here in the midst of men, Ionian and Dorian on both sides,

Signal and password known; which is friend, which is foeman?

Is it a friend? I doubt, though he speak with the voice of a brother.

O that the armies indeed were arrayed!
O joy of the onset !

Sound, thou trumpet of God, come forth
Great Cause, and array us!
King and leader appear, thy soldiers an-
swering seek thee.

Would that the armies indeed were
arrayed. O where is the battle!
Neither battle I see, nor arraying, nor
King in Israel,

Only infinite jumble and mess and dislocation,

Backed by a solemn appeal, "For God's sake do not stir there!"

THE STREAM OF LIFE.

O STREAM descending to the sea,
Thy mossy banks between,
The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow,
The leafy trees are green.

In garden plots the children play,
The fields the laborers till,
The houses stand on either hand,
And thou descendest still,

O life descending into death Our waking eyes behold,

HORATIUS BONAR.

- W. ALEXANDER.

247

HORATIUS BONAR.

THE INNER CALM.

CALM me, my God, and keep me calm,
While these hot breezes blow;
Be like the night-dew's cooling balm
Upon earth's fevered brow.

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm,

Soft resting on thy breast;
Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm,
And bid my spirit rest.

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm;
Let thine outstretchéd wing
Be like the shade of Elim's palm
Beside her desert spring.

Yes, keep me calm, though loud and rude

The sounds my ear that greet,
Calm in the closet's solitude,
Calm in the bustling street;

Calm in the hour of buoyant health,
Calm in my hour of pain,
Calm in my poverty or wealth,
Calm in my loss or gain;

Calm in the sufferance of wrong,

Like Him who bore my shame, Calm mid the threatening, taunting throng,

Who hate Thy holy name;

Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand;

Let not the music that is in us die! Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let,

Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie!

Spare not the stroke! do with us as thou wilt!

Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred;

Complete thy purpose, that we may be

come

Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord!

W. ALEXANDER.

UP ABOVE.

Down below, the wild November whistling

Through the beech's dome of burning red, And the Autumn sprinkling penitential Dust and ashes on the chestnut's head.

Down below, a pall of airy purple Darkly hanging from the mountain-side; And the sunset from his eyebrow staring O'er the long roll of the leaden tide.

power

My listening spirit stir;

Let not the tidings of the hour

E'er find too fond an ear;

Calm as the ray of sun or star

Which storms assail in vain, Moving unruffled through earth's war, The eternal calm to gain.

THE MASTER'S TOUCH.

In the still air the music lies unheard; In the rough marble beauty hides

unseen:

To make the music and the beauty, needs

The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen.

By the everlasting river's brink;
And the sea of glass, beyond whose margin
Never yet the sun was known to sink.

Down below, the white wings of the seabird

Dashed across the furrows, dark with mould,

Flitting, like the memories of our child

hood, Through the trees, now waxen pale and old.

Down below, imaginations quivering Through our human spirits like the wind; Thoughts that toss, like leaves about the woodland; Hope, like sea-birds, flashed across the mind.