Her minster-cells, dark glen and forest bower,
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of Thee,
Amidst the low religious whisperings,

And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude,
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain streams,
That sing of Thee;-back to free childhood's heart,
Fresh with the dews of tenderness. Thou bidd'st
The lilies of the field with placid smile
Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of Thine !
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet-hearts, touch'd by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. Even to faint age
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss: the old man's eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto Thee, who call'st earth's buried germs
From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up
To put on glory, to be girt with power,
And filled with immortality. Receive

Thanks, blessings, love, for these Thy lavish boons,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gav'st us flowers!

Thus do the tears that rise

When the rough paths of life are meekly.

trod,

With veiled lids, with soul upraised to

God,―

Look precious in His eyes!

HYMN FOR APRIL.

THY mighty working, mighty God! Wakes all my powers; I look abroad, And can no longer rest;

I, too, must sing when all things sing, And from my heart the praises ring The Highest loveth best.

If Thou, in Thy great love to us,
Wilt scatter joy and beauty thus,

O'er this poor world of ours,
What noble glories shall be given
Hereafter in Thy shining heaven

Set round with golden towers!

What thrilling joy, when on our sight
Christ's garden beams in cloudless light,
Where all the air is sweet;

Still laden with the unwearied hymn
From Cherubim and Seraphim

Who God's high praise repeat.

Oh, were I there! Oh, that I now Before Thy throne, my God, could bow,

And wave my heavenly palm!

Then like the angels would I raise

My voice, and sing Thy endless praise

In many a sweet-toned psalm.