Should a tempest arise, swiftly furl'd is the sail,

One moment she lingers, we see her no more;
She is gone where she hears not the blast of the gale,
To sleep till the storm and the tempest are o'er.
In that beautiful creature an emblem I see

Of a spirit redeem'd, of a soul that's at rest,
Embark'd on the waves of life's treacherous sea,
While the sunshine of glory plays over her breast.
All unfurl'd is the sail, for the breathings of love
Waft her sweetly away from the troubles of time;
She fears not the billows while gazing above,

As she steers her frail bark to heaven's beautiful clime; Should the storm roll around, should the waters prevail, She flies to the haven of safety and peace,

In the depths of His mercy she hides from the gale, And sleeps till the storm and the tempest shall cease.

Were not the sinful Mary's Tears.

T. MOORE.—Air, Stevenson.

ERE not the sinful Mary's tears

WERE

An offering worthy Heaven,

When o'er the faults of former years
She wept and was forgiven.

When bringing every balmy sweet
Her day of luxury stored,
She o'er her Saviour's hallow'd feet
The precious odours pour'd.

And wiped them with that golden hair,
Where once the diamond shone,

Though now those gems of grief were there
Which shine for God alone!

Blessed are the Pure in Spirit.

Were not those sweets, so humbly shed

That hair-those weeping eyes— And the sunk heart, that inly bled, Heaven's noblest sacrifice?

Thou that hast slept in error's sleep,
Oh, wouldst thou wake in heaven,
Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,
"Love much," * and be forgiven !

Blessed are the Pure in Spirit.

J. E. CARPENTER.-Music by Pohlenz.

BLESSED are the pure in spirit,

Who all worldly joys despise,

Seeking only to inherit

Purer mansions in the skies;

They whose hope in heaven is centred,
Trusting to His word alone,

Who the righteous path have enter'd
That shall lead them to His throne.

Blessed are the poor, whose treasure
Is the worth that passeth show,
Whom our heavenly Lord shall measure
By their good deeds here below;
Though no earthly princes heed them,
They shall see their Maker's face,
When the last great day shall lead them
To His heavenly throne of grace.

* Luke vii. 47.

169

TH

Christmas Morn.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

HE time draws near the birth of Christ ; The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,

From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door

Were shut between me and the sound.

Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate, and now decrease,
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill to all mankind.

Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn!
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father! touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.

Ο

On Jordan's Bank.

LORD BYRON.-Music by J. Braham.

N Jordan's bank the Arab's camels stray,

On Sion's hill the false one's votaries pray,

The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep

Yet there even there-O God! Thy thunders sleep.

Where is your Dwelling, ye Sainted? 171

There-where Thy finger scorch'd the tablet-stone!
There where Thy shadow to Thy people shone !
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire;
Thyself--none living see and not expire.

Oh! in the lightning let Thy glance appear,
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear:
How long by tyrants shall Thy land be trod?
How long Thy temple worshipless, O God?

Where is your Dwelling, ye Sainted?

T. MOORE.-Air, Hasse.

WHERE is your dwelling, ye sainted?

WHE

Through what Elysium more bright

Than fancy or hope ever painted,

Walk ye in glory and light?
Who the same kingdom inherits?
Breathes there a soul that may dare
Look to that world of spirits,

Or hope to dwell with you there?

Sages! who, even in exploring

Nature through all her bright ways,

Went, like the seraphs adoring,

And veil'd your eyes in the blaze,-
Martyrs who left for our reaping

Truths you had sown in your blood,--
Sinners! whom long years of weeping
Chasten'd from evil to good,-

Maidens who, like the young crescent,
Turning away your pale brows
From earth, and the light of the present,
Look'd to your Heavenly Spouse,-
Say, through what region enchanted
Walk ye, in heaven's sweet air?
Say to what spirit 'tis granted,

Bright souls, to dwell with you there.

The Heart's Longing.

F. W. FABER.

PARADISE! O Paradise!

Who doth not crave for rest? Who doth not seek the happy land Where they that loved are blest? Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.

O Paradise! O Paradise!
'Tis weary waiting here:

We long to be where Jesus is,

To feel, to see Him near;
Where loyal hearts and true
Stand ever in the light,

All rapture through and through,
In God's most holy sight.