Is the cup

Satan. My soul forecasts The shadows of the future. Of vengeance sweet? Comrades, it shall be fill'd

Full and forever to the cruel brim.

Messiah hath espoused a Bride on earth:
We will defile that Bride. His Church of old
Fell easily in our lascivious arms;

But this chaste matron, nurtured at the Cross,
And overshadow'd by the Dove, and school'd
In suffering, will be far more rigid found:
Yet not impregnable, we copying Him.
Doth He work slowly? slowly we must work:
And secretly? we must in secret work:
And patiently? we patiently must work.
And if at last within His temple courts
His well-beloved, by us betray'd, debauch'd,
Decking herself with scarlet, gems, and gold,
And all the blandishments of harlotry,
Have dalliance with the nations and their

Only by His permission. Then beware,
And make thyself all reverence and fear.
Kneeling ne'er spoil'd silk stockings: quit
thy state,

All equal are within the church's gate.
Let vain or busy thoughts have there no part:
Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasures
thither.

Christ purged His temple, so must thou thy heart.

All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together

To cozen thec. Look to thy actions well:
For churches either are our Heaven or Hell!
George Herbert.

430. CHURCH, Death in the.
Many there are and dry,
Spread through the open vale,
Millions of lifeless souls they lie
Within the Christian pale.

I pass the churches through,
The scattered bones I see,
And Christendom appears in view
A hideous Calvary!

431. CHURCH, A Fashionable.

Look on this edifice of marble made-
How fair it swells, too beautiful to fade.
See what fine people in its portals crowd,
Smiling and greeting, talking, laughing
loud!

What is it? Surely not a gay Exchange,
Where Wit and Beauty social joys arrange;
Not a grand shop where late Parisian styles
Attract rich buyers from a thousand miles?
But step within: no need of further search;
Behold, admire a fashionable church!
Look how its oriel window glits and gleams,
Where tinted light magnificently streams
On the proud pulpit, carved with quaint de-
vice,

Where velvet cushions, exquisitely nice, Press'd by the polish'd preacher's dainty hands,

Hold a large volume clasp'd by golden bands. Park Benjamin.

432. CHURCH, Gates of the. Thou, too, O Church! which here we see, No easy task hath builded thee.

Long did the chisels ring around!
Long did the mallet's blows rebound!
Long worked the head and toiled the hand
Ere stood thy stones as now they stand!
Thy gates a pearly lustre pour;
Thy gates are open evermore;
And thither evermore draw nigh,
All who for Christ has dared to die;
Or smit with love of their dear Lord,
Have pains endured, and joys abhorred.
Breviary.

433. CHURCH a Light-house.
The light-house founded on a rock,

Casts o'er the flood its radiant eye, Firm amidst ocean's heaviest shock,

Serene beneath the stormiest sky.

Though winds and waters rage and foam, Though darkness lowers like Egypt's night, Here peace and safety find a home;

In this small Goshen there is light.
Nor for itself it stands alone;

The seaman's friend, it shines from far,
As though an angel from the throne
Came down to be his leading star.

It warns to shun the breakers near,
Smooth into port the vessel guides,
Points where a wider course to steer,
Shows how to 'scape conflicting tides.
Thus built upon eternal truth,

High in mid-heaven, o'er land and sea, Christ's church holds forth to age and youth A beacon and a sanctuary.

Not many rich or noble called,

Not many great or wise;

For not like kingdoms of the world Thy holy Church, O God!

Are poor in human eyes.

A little flock! 'Tis well, 'tis well;
Such be her lot and name;
Through ages past it has been so,

And now 'tis still the same.

But the chief Shepherd comes at length, Her feeble days are o'er,

No more a handful in the earth,

A little flock no more.

No more a lily among thorns;
Weary, and faint, and few,

But countless as the stars of heaven,
Or as the early dew.

Then entering the eternal halls,

In robes of victory,

That mighty multitude shall keep
The joyous jubilee.

Unfading palms they bear aloft,
Unfaltering songs they sing;
Unending festival they keep,
In presence of the King.

Horatius Bonar.

437. CHURCH, Spread of the. The Banyan of the Indian isle

Spreads deeply down its massive root, And spreads its branching life abroad,

And bends to earth with scarlet fruit; But when the branches reach the ground, They firmly plant themselves again: They rise and spread and droop and root, An ever-green and endless chain.

And so the Church of Jesus Christ,
The blessed Banyan of our God,
Fast-rooted upon Zion's mount,

Has sent its sheltering arms abroad;
And every branch that from it springs,
In sacred beauty spreading wide,
As low it bends to bless the earth,
Sull plants another by its side.
Long as the world itself shall last,

The sacred Banyan still shall spread,
From clime to clime, from age to age,
Its sheltering shadow shall be shed.
Nations shall seek its pillar'd shade,

Its leaves shall for their healing be:
The circling flood that feeds its life,

The blood that crimsoned Calvary.
438. CHURCH, Stability of the.
O where are kings and empires now,
Of old that went and came?
But, Lord, thy Church is praying yet,
A thousand years the same.
We mark her goodly battlements,
And her foundations strong;
We hear within the solemn voice
Of her unending song.

her,

And tempests are abroad;

Unshaken as eternal hills,
Immovable she stands,

A mountain that shall fill the earth,
A house not made with hands.

439 CHURCH, Temple of the.

A. C. Coxe.

And whence, then, came these goodly stones 'twas Israel's pride to raise,

The glory of the former house, the joy of ancient days;

In purity and strength erect, in radiant splendor bright,

Sparkling with golden beams of noon, or silver smiles of night?

From coasts the stately cedar crowns, each noble slab was brought,

In Lebanon's deep quarries hewn, and on its mountains wrought;

There rung the hammer's heavy stroke among the echoing rocks,

There chased the chisel's keen, sharp edge, the rude, unshapen blocks.

Thence polished, perfected, complete, each fitted to its place,

For lofty coping, massive wall, or deep imbedded base,

They bore them o'er the waves that rolled their billowy swell between The shores of Tyre's imperial pride and Judah's hills of green.

With gradual toil the work went on, through days and months and years,

Beneath the summer's laughing sun, and winter's frozen tears;

And thus in majesty sublime and noiseless pomp it rose,

Fit dwelling for the God of Peace! a temple

of repose!

Of souls elect; their Zion there—that world of light and bliss;

Their Lebanon-the place of toil—of previous moulding this.

From nature's quarries, deep and dark, with gracious aim He hews

The stones, the spiritual stones, it pleaseth Him to choose:

Hard, rugged, shapeless at the first, yet destined each to shine,

Moulded beneath His patient hand in purity divine.

Oh, glorious process! see the proud grow lowly, gentle, meek;

See floods of unaccustomed tears gush down the hardened cheek:

Home to the place His grace designed that chosen soul to fill,

In the bright temple of the saved,." upon His holy hill;"

Home to the noiselessness, the peace of those sweet shrines above,

Whose stones shall never be displaced-set in redeeming love.

Lord, chisel, chasten, polish us, each blemish work away,

Cleanse us with purifying blood, in spotless robes array;

And thus, Thine image on us stamped, transport us to the shore,

Where not a stroke was ever felt, for none is needed more.

440. CHURCH, Unity of the.

One family, we dwell in Him,

One Church above, beneath,
Though now divided by the stream,
The narrow stream of death.
One army of the living God,

To His command we bow:
Part of His host has crossed the flood,
And part is crossing now.

Ten thousand to their endless home
This solemn moment fly:
And we are to the margin come,
And we expect to die.
His militant, embodied host,

With wishful looks we stand,
And long to see that happy coast,
And reach that heavenly land.

Our old companions in distress
We haste again to see,
And eager long for our release
And full felicity.

Even now by faith we join our hands

With those that went before,
And greet the blood-besprinkled bands
On the eternal shore. Charles Wesley.

To find with thee His throne and home;
Not to depart again,

Nor leave thee in thy widowhood,
In darkness and in solitude,
Exposed to every foe

Of earth around and hell below;
But over earth to reign!

Is the Bridegroom absent still?
Watch, O blood-bought Church of God;
Severed from an evil world,

Walk thou in the heavenly road.
Keep thy garment und filed,

Of the flesh abhor each spot,
Cast behind thee all of self,

Be time's vanities forgot.
Let the cry be heard, "How long,"
Lord, how long shall evil reign?
When shall sin be swept away,

And this earth be clean again?
Lord, how long shall error spread,
Truth be trodden in the dust,
Hatred flow from tongue and pez,
Hatred of the good and just!
Hatred of the Christ of God,

Of His true and holy word! Mockery of His holy crown,

Scorn of His uplifted sword? This the burden of thy cry:

When shall end the age of wrong, Error, pain, misrule, and lust,

Righteous King and Lord, how long?

Who is she that says in pride,
"As a queen I sit and reign,"-
To me who speaks of widowhood,
Of poverty and grief and pain?
She it is, the harlot-bride

Of the world's Christ-hating King,—
She it is who speaks, in pride

Of her vain imagining;

She the true chaste spouse who mocks,-
Bride of Christ, elect of God,

Who the heavenly Bridegroom loathes;
Scorns, yet dreads His iron rod.
Decked in scarlet, gems, and gold,
Can she be a widow,—she
Who the mystic sceptre sways,
To whom millions bow the knee?

Yet her day is nigh at hand,
And her judgment lingers not.
See the fierce ascending smoke
Of her vengeance, red and hot.
See the mighty millstone flung
By the glorious angel-hand;
Hear the hallelujah rise

From the white, palm-bearing band!
She is fallen, and shall not rise,
She is sunk for evermore,

flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's
shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the strawbuilt shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er

gave,

Await alike the inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ;

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er un

roll;

Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its fragrance on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,

The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes

confined;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.