A SUPPLICATION.

WAY for all that live! heal us by pain and lofs'; O

Fill all our years with toil, and bless us with thy

rod. Thy bonds bring wider freedom ; climbing, by the cross, Wins that brave height where looms the city of our

God!

Hallow our wit with prayer : our mastery steep in meek

ness;

Pour on our study inspiration's holy light;
Hew out, for Christ's dear Church, a Future without

weakness,
Quarried from thine Eternal Beauty, Order, Might!

Met, there, mankind's great Brotherhood of Souls and

Powers, Raise thou full praises from its farthest corners dim; Pour down, O steadfast Sun, thy beams on all its tow

ers ;

Roll through its world-wide spaces Faith's majestic

hymn.

Come, age of God's own Truth, after man's age of

fables ! Seed sown in Eden, yield the nations' healing tree!

Ebal and Sinai, Mamre's tents, the Hebrew tables,
All look towards Olivet, and bend to Calvary.

Fold of the tender Shepherd ! rise, and spread !
Arch o'er our frailty roofs of everlasting strength!
Be all the Body gathered to its living Head!
Wanderers we faint : 0, let us find our Lord at length!

Rev. F. D. Huntington.

L

IFE'S mystery - deep, restless as the Ocean

Hath surged and wailed for ages to and fro; Earth's generations watch its ceaseless motion

As in and out its hollow moanings flow; Shivering and yearning by that unknown sea, Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee !

Life's sorrows, with inexorable power,

Sweep desolation o'er this mortal plain ; And human loves and hopes fly as the chaff

Borne by the whirlwind from the ripened grain : Ah, when before that blast my hopes all flee, Let my soul calm itself, () Christ, in thee !

Between the mysteries of death and lite

Thou standest, loving, guiding - not explaining; We ask, and thou art filent - yet we gaze,

And our charmed hearts forget their drear complain

ing!

No crushing fate — no ftony destiny ?
Thou Lamb that hast been flain, we rest in thee!

The many waves of thought, the mighty tides,

The ground-swell that rolls up from other lands,
From far-off worlds, from dim eternal shores

Whose echo dashes on life's wave-worn strands,
This vague, dark tumult of the inner sea
Grows calm, grows bright, O, risen Lord, in thee !

Thy piercéd hand guides the inysterious wheels;
Thy thorn-crowned brow now wears the crown of

power ;
And when the dark enigma presseth sore

Thy patient voice saith, “Watch with me

one

hour!"

In silver peace

As sinks the moaning river in the sea

so sinks my soul in Thee!

Harriet Beecher Stowe.

1

“Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth that

I desire beside thee.” Psalm 73: 25.

I

LOVE (and have some cause to love) the earth;

She is my Maker's creature, therefore good:
She is my mother, for the gave me birth ;
She is my tender nurse; she gives me food :

But what's a creature, Lord, compar’d with thee?
Or what's my mother, or my nurse, to me?

I love the air; her dainty sweets refresh
My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;
Her fhrill-mouth'd choir sustain me with their flesh;
And with their Polyphonian notes delight me :

But what's the air, or all the sweets, that she
Can bless my soul withal, compar’d to thee?

I love the sea ; she is my fellow-creature,
My careful purveyor ; The provides me store :
She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore :

But, Lord of oceans, when compar'd with thee,
What is the ocean, or her wealth, to me ?

To Heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky :

But what is Heav'n, great God, compar’d to thee?
Without thy presence, Heav’n’s no Heav'n to me.

Without thy presence, earth gives no refection;
Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure ;
Without thy presence, air 's a rank infection ;
Without thy presence, Heav'n itself's no pleasure ;

If not posseff’d, if not enjoy'd in thee,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or Heaven, to me?

Francis Quarles.

N all extremes, Lord, thou art still

I The mourn whered my hopes do Alce ;

O make my soul deteft all ill,

Because so much abhorred by thee :
Lord, let thy gracious trials show
That I am just, or make me so.

Shall mountain, desert, beast, and tree,

Yield to that heavenly voice of thine ;