79

To Thee, O Christ, we fly,
To Thine outflowing blood;
Look with Thy pitying eye,
Spare us, most holy Lord:
Nor let us lose the joys that rise
From Thine atoning sacrifice.

Dedication of a Church.

[By N. P. WILLIS, the American poet, born in Maine, 1807; died at Idlewild,

1867.]

HE perfect world by Adam trod,

THE

Was the first temple built by God:

His fiat laid the corner-stone,

And heaved its pillars, one by one.

He hung its starry roof on high-
The broad illimitable sky;

He spread its pavement, green and bright,
And curtained it with morning light.

The mountains in their places stood,
The sea, the sky, and "all was good;
And when its first pure praises rang,
The "morning stars together sang."

Lord! 'tis not ours to make the sea
And earth and sky a house for Thee;
But in Thy sight our offering stands —
A humbler temple, "made with hands."

[From the Latin of Venantius Fortunatus of Italy, who was born 530, and died 609. He was the intimate friend of Queen Rhadegunda. This hymn is sung in the Roman Catholic Church on Good Friday, when "the Host" is carried to the altar. The version here given is, with some variations, that of Rev. J. M. Neale, who considers this "one of the grandest in the treasury of the Latin Church." The explanation of the last line of the third stanza is, that in the Italic version, Ps. 96: 10 reads, "Tell it among the heathen that the Lord reigneth from the Tree." Justin Martyr accused the Jews of corrupting the text, and Tertullian in several places quotes the elder reading.]

Treyaross shines forth in mystic glow;

HE banners forward go;

Where He in flesh, our flesh who made,
Our sentence bore, our ransom paid:

Where deep for us the spear was dyed,
Life's torrent rushing from His side,
To wash us in that precious flood
Where mingled water flowed, and blood.

Fulfilled is all that David told

In true prophetic song of old;
Amidst the nations God, saith he,

Hath reigned and triumphed from the tree.

O tree of beauty, tree of light!
O tree with royal purple dight!
Elect on whose triumphal breast
Those holy limbs should find their rest;

On whose dear arms, so widely flung,
The weight of this world's ransom hung:
The price of human kind to pay,
And spoil the spoiler of his prey.

81

The Heavens declare His Glory.

[This noble hymn has generally been attributed to Joseph Addison. It was published in a number of the "Spectator" which Addison is known to have written, but there he makes no claim to the authorship. The "Athenæum" brings to light, from an old edition of his poems collected in 1776, strong evidence that the hymn was written by Andrew Marvell. There is no evidence that Addison was the author.]

HE spacious firmament on high,
with all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim :

The unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth:

While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found?

In reason's eye they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."

82

Resignation.

[By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.]

HERE is no flock, however watched and

THE tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death! What seems so is transition.
This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

83

T

A City that hath Foundations.

[By CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. Written in 1866.]

THEREFORE, O friend, I would not, if I might,

Rebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyed One time to dwell: my soul shall walk in white, Cast down, but not destroyed.

Therefore in patience I possess my soul;

Yea, therefore as a flint I set my face,

To pluck down, to build up again the whole, – But in a distant place.

These thorns are sharp, yet I can tread on them; This cup is loathsome, yet He makes it sweet; My face is steadfast toward Jerusalem,

My heart remembers it.

I lift the hanging hands, the feeble knees, I, precious more than seven times molten gold,

Until the day when from His storehouses
God shall bring new and old;
Beauty for ashes, oil of joy for grief,
Garment of praise for spirit of heaviness;
Although to-day I fade as doth a leaf,

I languish and grow less.

Although to-day He prunes my twigs with pain, Yet doth His blood nourish and warm my

root;

To-morrow I shall put forth buds again,
And clothe myself with fruit.
Although to-day I walk in tedious ways,
To-day His staff is turned into a rod,
Yet will I wait for Him the appointed days,
And stay upon my God.

84

Fellowship of Suffering.

[By THEODORE TILTON, a native of New York.]

HY cruel crown of thorns!

THY But where, O

But where, O Lord, is mine?