JOHN KEBLE.

From THE CHRISTIAN YEAR.

MORNING.

Hues of the rich unfolding morn,
That, ere the glorious sun be born,
By some soft touch invisible
Around his path are taught to swell ;—
Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay,
That dancest forth at opening day,
And brushing by with joyous wing,
Wakenest each little leaf to sing ;-

Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam,
By which deep grove and tangled stream
Pay, for soft rains in season given,
Their tribute to the genial heaven ;-

O timely happy, timely wise, Hearts that with rising morn arise! Eyes that the beam celestial view, Which evermore makes all things new! New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove; Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life and power and thought. New mercies each returning day Hover around us while we pray;

New perils past, new sins forgiven,

New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven. If on our daily course our mind

Be set to hallow all we find.

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be
As more of heaven in each we see.

We need not bid, for cloistered cell, Our neighbour and our work farewell;

Nor strive to wind ourselves too high
For sinful man beneath the sky.

The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask :
Room to deny ourselves; a road
To bring us daily nearer God.

Lord, help us, this and every day,
To live more nearly as we pray.

THE PURIFICATION.

Blest are the pure in heart,
For they shall see our God;
The secret of the Lord is theirs,
Their soul is his abode. . .

Still to the lowly soul

He doth himself impart,

And for his temple and his throne
Chooseth the pure in heart.

From ST. MATTHEW.

There are, in this loud stunning tide
Of human care and crime,
With whom the melodies abide
Of the everlasting chime;

Who carry music in their heart,

Through dusky lane and wrangling mart,

Plying their daily task with busier feet,

Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.

SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY.

There is a book, who runs may read,
Which heavenly truth imparts,
And all the lore its scholars need,
Pure eyes and Christian hearts.

The works of God above,-below,
Within us and around,
Are pages in that book to show
How God himself is found.

The dew of Heaven is like Thy grace;
It steals in silence down;

But where it lights, the favoured place
By richest fruits is known.

Thou who hast given me eyes to see
And love this sight so fair,

Give me a heart to find out Thee,
And read Thee everywhere.

From LYRA INNOCENTIUM.

EARLY WARNINGS.

The deeds we do, the words we say,
Into still air they seem to fleet;

We count them ever past,

But they shall last:

In the dread judgment, they,
And we, shall meet.

HENRY HART MILMAN.

LORD, HAVE MERCY WHEN WE PRAY.

Two top lines from Hymns for the Christian Church and Home, by the Rev. Dr. Martineau.]

Lord, have mercy when we pray
Strength to seek a better way..
When our wakening thoughts begin
First to loathe their cherished sin,
When our weary spirits fail,
And our aching brows are pale,
O then have mercy Lord.
Lord, have mercy when we lie
On the restless bed, and sigh;
Sigh for death, yet fear it still,
From the thought of former ill;
When all other hope is gone,
When our course is almost done,
When the dim advancing gloom
Tells us that our hour is come;

O then have mercy, Lord.
Lord, have mercy when we know
First how vain this world below;
When the earliest gleam is given
Of thy bright but distant heaven;
When our darker thoughts oppress,
Doubts perplex, and fears distress.
O then have mercy, Lord.

SIR JOHN BOWRING.
LIFE'S PILGRIMAGE.

[1792-1872

Lead us with thy gentle sway,
As a willing child is led;
Speed us on our forward way,
As a pilgrim, Lord, is sped;
Who with prayers and helps divine
Seeks a consecrated shrine.

SIR JOHN BOWRING.

LIFE'S PILGRIMAGE.

We are pilgrims, and our goal

Is that distant land whose bourn

Is the haven of the soul,

Where the mourners cease to mourn ;
Where the Saviour's hand will dry

Every tear from every eye.

Lead us thither! thou dost know

All the way; but wanderers, we
Often miss our path below,

And stretch out our hands to thee;
Guide us-save us,—and prepare
Our appointed mansion there.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

1775-1864]

MISCELLANEOUS.

XI.

My hopes retire; my wishes as before,
Struggle to find their resting-place in vain;
The ebbing sea thus beats against the shore,
The shore repels it, it returns again.

XIV.

From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples down a sunny river;
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down, and up again, as blithe as ever.