HYMN.

[TOPLADY.]

ROCK of ages, rent for me!
Let me hide myself in Thee;
Let the water and the blood,
From Thy riven side which flow'd,
Be of sin the double cure,

Cleanse me from its guilt and power!

Not the labour of my hands

Can fulfil Thy law's demands;
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears for ever flow,
All for sin could not atone :
Thou must save, and Thou alone!

Nothing in my hand I bring,

Simply to Thy cross I cling:
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;
Vile, I to the fountain fly;
Wash me, Saviour, or I die.

While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my eyelids close in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on Thy judgment throne
Rock of ages, rent for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee!

THE HOUR OF PEACE.

[GISBORNE.]

WHEN groves, by moon-light, silence keep,
And winds the vexed waves release,
And fields are hush'd, and cities sleep:
Lord is not this the hour of peace?
When infancy at evening tries

By turns to climb each parent's knces,
And gazing meets their raptur'd eyes:
Lord! is not this the hour of peace ?
In golden pomp when autumn smiles;
And hill and dale its rich increase
By man's full barns' exulting piles:
Lord! is not this the hour of peace?
When Mercy points where Jesus bleeds,
And Faith beholds thy anger cease,
And hope to blank despair succeeds:
This, Father, this alone is peace!

THE

SPIRIT'S MINISTERINGS.

[REV. H. STEBBING.]

THERE'S a sound of the summer coming from far, A wakening call to the earth,

And brightly the light of the morning star,

Falls where the rose has birth:

There's a breath of meadows and odorous flowers,

Mixed with the music of many bowers,

And a spirit the light and music fills,

The spirit of joy breathing where it wills!

There's a gladness of heart in all human things, The eye is bright and the voice is sweet,

Love is bathed in the deepest springs,

Where the mortal's life and the spirit's meet:

One happy song from the green

earth swells, The voice of hamlets and peopled dells"Tis the holy spirit of nature still, Doing the Lord of Creation's will.

A mother is singing her babe to rest,
With the song of her quiet soul-

The fondest hopes that are in her breast,
An angel would not control-

But her heart is stirred with her own deep prayer
And the blessed thought that's settling there,
With the voice of a spirit sent from thence,
Where hearts are blessed for their innocence.

An aged man hath come ling'ring by

The home of his earliest youth,

And a vision passes before his eye

Full of delight and truth

There's a promise made of some sweet return,
And he feels his heart with the blessing burn;
For a spirit comes from heaven to tell,

In heaven with all he loved 'tis well.

There are children round their father's bed,
And his last farewell is given-
There's joy in their grief-a blessing shed,
At once from their Sire and Heaven-
Deep is the peace that reigns around,
Where the faithful in his faith is crowned,
For the holiest of holies is o'er his bed-
The Spirit of Him who wakes the dead.

Oh! 'tis the one great Spirit in all,

Working His various will

The bosom is blessed that hears His call-

'The ocean bears and is still :

The summer is His with its swelling bloom,
The glory His of the martyr's tomb;
He is the life of the world-the breath
Of the pure in soul, and the true in death,

ON THE

DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT,

DYING OF A COUGH.

[MILTON.]

O FAIREST flower, no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken primrose fading timelessly,

Summer's chief honour, if thou hadst out-lasted
Bleak Winter's force that made thy blossom dry;
For he being amorous on that lovely dye

That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss,
But kill'd, alas, and then bewail'd his fatal bliss.

For since grim Aquilo his charioteer
By boisterous rape th' Athenian damsel got,
He thought it touch'd his deity full near,
If likewise he some fair one wedded not,
Thereby to wipe away th' infamous blot

Of long-uncoupled bed, and childless eld, Which 'mongst the wanton gods a foul reproach was held.

So mounting up in icy pearled car, Through middle empire of the freezing air He wander'd long, till thee he spied from far: There ended was his quest, there ceas'd his care. Down he descended from his snow-soft chair, But all unwares with his cold-kind embrace Unhous'd thy virgin soul from her fair biding place. Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate: For so Apollo, with unweeting hand, Whilome did slay his dearly loved mate, Young Hyacinth born on Eurota's strand, Young Hyacinth the pride of Spartan land; But then transform'd him to a purple flower: Alack that so to change thee Winter had no power. Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead, Or that thy corse corrupts in earth's dark womb, Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed, Hid from the world in a low delved tomb; Could Heav'n for pity, thee so strictly doom? Oh no! for something in thy face did shine Above mortality, that shew'd thou wast divine. Resolve me then, oh Soul most surely blest! (If so it be that thou these plaints dost hear) Tell me bright Spirit where'er thou hoverest, Whether above that high first-moving sphere, Or in th' Elysian fields (if such there were), if thou wert mortal wight, And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight. Wert thou some star which from the ruin'd roof Of shak'd Olympus by mischance didst fall; Which careful Jove in Nature's true behoof Took up, and in fit place did reinstall? Or did of late Earth's sons besiege the wall

Oh say me true,

Of sheeny Heav'n, and thou some goddess fled
Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar' head?