The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: "Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. “Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in

When life flowed by, and, like an angel, Death Came to release them to the world on high, Praise trembled still on each expiring breath,

And holy triumph beamed from every eye. Then gentle hands their "dust to dust" consign,

With quiet tears the simple rites are said, And here they sleep, till, at the trump divine, The earth and ocean render up their dead. An American Poet.

443. CHURCHYARD, Hope for the. As by the churchyard yew my evening way I take, and meditate the sacred muse, To catch thy notes my ears unbidden use, Sweet Elegist, sublimely solemn Gray! Yet ah! thy pensive moralizing lay

Were to my heart more grateful; if thy views,

Profusely rich in earth's autumnal hues, Showed more of Heaven's enlivening vernal day.

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave"Lo, from the grave fresh paths of glory rise! Reviving thence the "flower" shall breathe and wave

With purer sweetness and with lovelier dyes;

And the bright "gem," released from ocean's

cave,

Adorn with sun-like ray its kindred skies. Bp. Mant. 444. CHURCHYARD, Tabernacle in the. Methinks it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; [gloom But the shadows of eve that encompass with The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah, no! Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pen him below In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay,

To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,

For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride? To the trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! then they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,

But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To riches? Alas, 'tis in vain! Who hid, in their turns have been hid: The treasures are squandered again; And here in the grave are all the metals forbid,

But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffinlid.

To the pleasures which mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,

And none but the worm is the reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah, no! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above.

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,

Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow?-the dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or

fear;

Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow! Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone,

Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise. The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,

Who bequeathed us to them both when He rose to the skies. Herbert Knowles.

445. CISTERNS, Broken.

This world that we so highly prize,
And seek so eagerly its smile,
What is it ?—vanity and lies;

A broken cistern all the while.
Pleasure, with her delightful song,

That charms the unwary to beguile,
What is it?-the deceiver's tongue;
A broken cistern all the while.
And earthly friendships fair and gay,
That promise much with artful wile,
What are they?-only treachery;

A broken cistern all the while.

Riches, that so absorb the mind
In anxious care and ceaseless toil;
What are they?—faithless as the wind;
A broken cistern all the while.

Yes, all are broken cisterns, Lord,

To those that wander far from thee!
The living stream is in thy word,
Thou Fount of Immortality!
Thomas Raffles.

446. CIVILIZATION Perfected.
Bring us the higher example; release us
Into the larger coming time:
And into Christ's broad garment piece us
Rags of virtue as poor as crime,
National selfishness, civic vaunting.

No more Jew or Greek then taunting

Nor taunted; no more England nor

France!

But one confederate brotherhood, planting
One flag only, to mark the advance,
Onward and upward, of all humanity.
For fully developed Christianity

Is civilization perfected.

"Measure the frontier" shall be said,
"Count the ships," in national vanity?
-Count the nation's heart-beats sooner.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

447. CIVILIZATION, Triumph of
There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming;
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray

Of the good time coming.
Cannon balls may aid the truth,

But thought's a weapon stronger;
We'll win the battle by its aid-
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming;

The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord,
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given;
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
War in all men's eyes shall be
A monster of iniquity

In the good time coming.
Nations shall not quarrel then,
To prove which is the stronger;
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake;
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed
In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride,
And flourish all the stronger;
And Charity shall trim her lamp;
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming;
The people shall be temperate,
And shall love instead of hate,
In the good time coming.
They shall use and not abuse,

And make all virtue stronger;
The reformation has begun;
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;

Let us aid it all we can-
Every woman, every man-
The good time coming.
Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger;
"Twill be strong enough one day;
Wait a little longer. Charles Mackay.

448. CLOSET, Waiting in the.

Lord, I have shut my door,Shut out life's busy cares and fretting noise: Here in this silence they intrude no more. Speak Thou, and heavenly joys Shall fill my heart with music sweet and calm,

A holy psalm.

Yes, I have shut my door

Even on all the beauty of Thine earth,—
To its blue ceiling from its emerald floor,

Filled with spring's bloom and mirth:

From these Thy works I turn, Thyself I seek, To Thee I speak.

And I have shut my door On earthly passion,-all its yearning love, Its tender friendships, all the priceless store Of human ties. Above

All these my heart aspires, O Heart divine! Stoop Thou to mine.

Lord, I have shut my door!

Come Thou and visit me: I am alone!
Come, as when doors were shut Thou cam'st

of yore,

And visitedst Thine own.

My Lord! I kneel with reverent love and fear; For Thou art here!

Mary E. Atkinson.

449. CLOUD, Mission of a

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that

waken

The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain;
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder;
It struggles and howls at fits.
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sca;
Over the rills and the crags and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue

smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead.
As, on the jag of a mountain crag

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings;
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit
sea beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on
high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch, through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-colored bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of the earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I rise and upbuild it again.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Afar off views the coast he would enjoy, When yet the seas do toss his reeling bark "Twixt hope and danger. James Shirley. 451, COMFORT, Experience of.

I've found a joy in sorrow,
A secret balm for pain,

A beautiful to-morrow

Of sunshine after rain.
I've found a branch of healing
Near every bitter spring;
A whispered promise stealing
O'er every broken string.
I've found a glad hosanna

For every woe and wail,
A handful of sweet manna
When grapes from Eshcol fail.
I've found a Rock of Ages

When desert wells were dry;
And, after weary stages,

I've found an Elim nigh,

An Elim, with its coolness,

Its fountains, and its shade! A blessing in its fulness,

When buds of promise fade! O'er tears of soft contrition, I've seen a rainbow light; A glory and fruition,

So near!-yet out of sight. My Saviour! Thee possessing, I have the joy, the balm, The healing and the blessing,

The sunshine and the psalm! The promise for the fearful,

The Elim for the faint, The rainbow for the tearful, The glory for the saint.

Jane Crewdson.

452. COMFORT, Religious.
Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord who rises
With healing in His wings:
When comforts are declining,
He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
To cheer it after rain.

In holy contemplation,

We sweetly then pursue
The theme of God's salvation,
And find it ever new:
Set free from present sorrow,
We cheerfully can say,
Let the unknown to-morrow
Bring with it what it may.
It can bring with it nothing,

But He will bear us through;
Who gives the lilies clothing,

Will clothe His people too :
Beneath the spreading heavens,
No creature but is fed;
And He who feeds the ravens
Will give His children bread.
Though vine nor fig-tree neither,

Their wonted fruit should bear,
Though all the fields should wither,
Nor flocks nor herds be there:
Yet God the same abiding,
His praise shall tune my voice,
For while in Him confiding,
I cannot but rejoice.

John Newton.

scends?

Yet so it is: for duly there

The bitter herbs of earth are set, Till temper'd by the Saviour's prayer

And with the Saviour's life-blood wet, They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm, Soft as imprison'd martyr's death-bed calm. J. Keble.

454. COMFORT, Vain.

So dying men receive vain comforts
From those visitants they love, when they
Persuade them to be patient at the loss of life,
With saying they are mortal too, and mean
T endure the like calamity; as if

To die were from good fellowship, from free
Intent t' accompany departing friends,
When such last courtesy proceeds not from
Their will, but nature's obstinate decree.
W. Davenant.

455. COMMANDMENTS, Ten.
Thou shalt have no more gods but me,
Before no idol bow thy knee,
Take not the name of God in vain,
Nor dare the Sabbath-day profane.
Give both thy parents honor due.
Take heed that thou no murder do.
Abstain from words and deeds unclean;
Nor steal, though thou art poor and mean;
Nor make a wilful lie, nor love it.
What is thy neighbor's dare not covet.
Isaac Watts.

456. COMMENDATION, Use of Praise a fool, and slay him; for the canvas of his vanity is spread;

His bark is shallow in the water, and a sudden gust shall sink it:

Praise a wise man and speed him on his way; for he carrieth the ballast of humility, And is glad when his course is cheered by the sympathy of brethren ashore. The praise of a good man is good, for he holdeth up the mirror of Truth, That Virtue may see her own beauty, and delight in her own fair face: The praise of a bad man is evil, for he hideth the deformity of Vice,

Casting the mantle of a queen around the limbs of a leper.

Praise is rebuke to the man whose conscience

alloweth it not:

And where Conscience feeleth it her due, no

praise is better than a little. He that despiseth the outward appearance, despiseth the esteem of his fellows; And he that overmuch regardeth it, shall earn only their contempt: The honest commendation of an equal no one can scorn and be blameless,

Yet even that fair fame no one can hunt for and be honored:

If it come, accept it and be thankful, and be thou humble in accepting;

can gather honey out of rue. With a friend, praise him when thou canst; for many a friendship hath decayed, Like a plant in a crowded corner, for want of sunshine on its leaves :

With another, praise him not often,-other-
wise he shall despise thee;
But be thou frugal in commending; so will
he give honor to thy judgment.
Wilt thou that one remember a thing?-
praise him in the midst of thy advice.
Expect not praise from the mean, neither
gratitude from the selfish.
M. F. Tupper.

457. COMMUNION, Divine.
They know, who thus oppress me,
'Tis hard to be alone;
But know not One can bless me,

Who comes through bars and stone:
He makes my dungeon's darkness bright,
And fills my bosom with delight.

Thy love, O God! restores me

From sighs and tears to praise;
And deep my soul adores Thee,

Nor thinks of time or place:
I ask no more, in good or ill,
But union with Thy holy will.
'Tis that which makes my treasure,
'Tis that which brings my gain;
Converting woe to pleasure,

And reaping joy from pain.
Oh, 'tis enough, whatc'er befall,
To know that God is All in all.

Madame Guyon, tr. by T. C. Upham.
458. COMMUNION, Example of

It happened on a solemn eventide,
Soon after He that was our Surety died,
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined,
The scene of all those sorrows left behind;
Sought their own village, busied as they went
In musings worthy of the great event;
They spake of Him they loved, of Him whose
life,

Though blameless, had incurred perpetual strife,

Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts,
A deep memorial graven on their hearts.
The recollection, like a vein of ore,
The further traced, enriched them still the
more;

They thought Him, and they justly thought
Him One,

Sent to do more than He appeared t' have done;

To exalt a people, and to place them high Above all else, and wondered He should die. Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, A stranger joined them, courteous as a friend, And asked them with a kind, engaging air, What their affliction was, and begged a share. Informed, He gathered up the broken thread, And, truth and wisdom gracing all He said,