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Unchanging law binds all,

And Nature all we see : Thou art a star, far off, too far,

Too far to follow Thee !

-Ah, sense-bound heart and blind !

Is nought but what we see?
Can time undo what once was true;

Can we not follow Thee?

Is what we trace of law

The whole of God's decree?
Does our brief span grasp Nature's plan,

And bid not follow Thee?

O heavy cross-of faith

In what we cannot see !
As once of yore, thyself restore

And help to follow Thee !

If not as once Thou cam'st

In true humanity,
Come yet as guest within the breast

That burns to follow Thee.

Within our heart of hearts

In nearest nearness be: Set up

thy throne within thine own:Go, Lord : we follow Thee.

FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. RESTORATION OF BELIEF.

FOLLOW me, Jesus said, and they uprose,

Peter and Andrew rose and followed him, Followed him even to Heaven through death most grim, And through a long hard life without repose, Save in the grand ideal of its close. “Take up your cross and follow me,' He said, And the world answers yet through all her dead, And still would answer had we faith like those.

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Oh, who will speak again such words of fire !
With gladsome haste and with rejoicing souls
How would men gird themselves for the emprize !
Leaving their black boats by the dead lake's mire,
Leaving their slimy nets by the cold shoals,
Leaving their old oars, nor once turn their eyes.

WILLIAM BELL SCOTT.

O GOD, IMPART THY BLESSING. O GOD, impart thy blessing to my cries !

I trust but faintly, and I daily err; The waters of my heart are oft astir, An angel's there! and yet I cannot rise ! Ah ! would my Lord were here amongst us still, Proffering his bosom to his servant's brow; Too oft that holy life comes o'er us now Like twilight echoes from a distant hill ;

We long for his pure looks and words sublime;
His lowly-lofty innocence and grace;
The talk sweet-toned, and blessing all the time;
The mountain sermon and the ruthful gaze;
The cheerly credence gathered from his face;
His voice in village groups at eve or prime !

CHARLES TURNER.

LOW SPIRITS.

FEVER, and fret

, and aimless stir,
And disappointed strife,
All chafing unsuccessful things

Make up the sum of life.

Love adds anxiety to toil,

And sameness doubles cares,
While one unbroken chain of work

The flagging temper wears.

The light and air are dulled with smoke;

The streets resound with noise ;
And the soul sinks to see its peers

Chasing their joyless joys.

Voices are round me; smiles are near;

Kind welcomes to be had;
And yet my spirit is alone,

Fretful, outworn, and sad.

A weary actor, I would fain

Be quit of my long part: The burden of unquiet life

Lies heavy on my heart.

Sweet thought of God! now do thy work,

As thou hast done before ; Wake up, and tears will wake with thee,

And the dull mood be o'er.

The very thinking of the thought,

Without or praise or prayer, Gives light to know, and life to do,

And marvellous strength to bear.

Oh, there is music in that thought

Unto a heart unstrung,
Like sweet bells at the evening time

Most musically rung.
'Tis not his justice or his power,

Beauty or blest abode,
But the mere unexpanded thought

Of the Eternal God.

It is not of his wondrous works,

Nor even that He is;
Words fail it, but it is a thought

Which by itself is bliss.

Sweet thought! lie closer to my heart,

That I may feel thee near,

M

As one who for his weapon feels

In some nocturnal fear.
Mostly in hours of gloom thou com'st,

When sadness makes us lowly,
As though thou wert the echo sweet

Of humble melancholy.
I bless Thee, Lord, for this kind check

To spirits over free,
And for all things that make me feel
More helpless need of Thee.

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

THE SOUL.

IS not the body more than meat? The soul

Is something greater than the food it needs: Prayers, sacraments, and charitable deeds, They realize the hours that onward roll Their endless way, “to kindle or control.' Our acts and words are but the pregnant seeds Of future being, when the flowers and weeds, Local and temporal, in the vast whole Shall live eternal. Nothing ever dies ! The shortest smile that flits across a face Which lovely grief hath made her dwelling-place, Lasts longer than the earth or visible skies ! It is an act of God, whose acts are truth, And vernal still in everlasting youth.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

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