There is no gloom on earth; for God above

Chastens in love,

Transmuting sorrows into golden joy

Free from alloy.

His dearest attribute is still to bless,

And man's most welcome hymn is grateful cheerful

ness.

THE HEART'S SANCTUARY.

FOR man there still is left one sacred charter;
One refuge still remains for human woes.
Victim of care! or persecution's martyr!
Who seek'st a sure asylum from thy foes,
Learn that the holiest, safest, purest, best,
Is man's own breast.

There is a solemn sanctuary founded

By God himself; not for transgressors meant ; But that the man oppressed, the spirit wounded, And all beneath the world's injustice bent, Might turn from outward wrong, turmoil and din, To peace within!

Andrews Norton.

1786-1853.

THE DEPARTED SPIRIT.

He has gone to his God; he has gone to his home, No more amid peril and error to roam;

His eyes are no longer dim ;

His feet will no more falter;

No grief can follow him ;

No pang his cheek can alter.

There are paleness, and weeping, and sighs below;

For our faith is faint, and our tears will flow;

But the harps of heaven are ringing;

Glad angels come to greet him,

And hymns of joy are singing,

While old friends press to meet him.

O! honored, beloved, to earth unconfined,

Thou hast soared on high, thou hast left us behind.

But our parting is not forever,

We will follow thee by heaven's light Where the grave cannot dissever The souls whom God will unite.

SUBMISSION.

My God, I thank Thee! may no thought
E'er deem Thy chastisement severe;

But may this heart, by sorrow taught,
Calm each wild wish, each idle fear.

Thy mercy bids all nature bloom;

The sun shines bright, and man is gay; Thine equal mercy spreads the gloom, That darkens o'er his little day.

Full many a throb of grief and pain
Thy frail and erring child must know;
But not one prayer is breathed in vain,
Nor does one tear unheeded flow.

Thy various messengers employ;
Thy purposes of love fulfil;
And 'mid the wreck of human joy,

Let kneeling Faith adore Thy will.

ON A FRIEND'S DEATH.

Dost thou, amid the rapturous glow

With which thy soul her welcome hears, Dost thou still think of us below,

Of earthly scenes, of human tears?

Perhaps e'en now thy thoughts return
To when in summer's moonlight walk,
Of all that now is thine to learn,

We framed no light or fruitless talk.

How vivid still past scenes appear!
I feel as though all were not o'er;
As though 'twere strange I cannot hear
Thy voice of friendship yet once more.

We meet again! —A little while,
And where thou art I too shall be ;
And then, with what an angel smile
Of gladness, thou wilt welcome me!

John Bowring.

MATINS AND VESPERS.

I.

LORD! when I seek Thy face, I feel
I am but dust

the sprinkled dew
Of morning. But the towering will
That soars to heaven, is heavenly still
And man, though clay, is spirit too.

Yes! I can feel that, though a clod
Of the dark vale, there is a sense
Of better things — the fit abode
Of something tending up to God
A germ of pure intelligence.

I know not how the Eternal hand
Has moulded man - but this I know,

That whilst 'mid earth's strange scenes I stand, Bright visions of a better land

Go with me still, where'er I go.