But God alone can be a home;

And his sweet Vision lies

Somewhere in that soft gloom concealed, Beyond the starry skies.

So, as if waiting for a voice,

Nightly I gaze and sigh,

While the stars look at me silently

Out of their silent sky.

-How have I erred! God is my home,

And God Himself is here;

Why have I looked so far for Him

Who is nowhere but near?

Down in earth's duskiest vales, where'er

My pilgrimage may be,

Thou, Lord! wilt be a ready home
Always at hand for me.

I spake but God was nowhere seen;
Was his love too tired to wait?

Ah no! my own unsimple love
Hath often made me late.

How often things already won
It urges me to win,

How often makes me look outside

For that which is within!

Our souls go too much out of self
Into ways dark and dim:

"Tis rather God who seeks for us,
Than we who seek for Him.

Yet surely through my tears I saw
God softly drawing near;

How came He without sight or sound
So soon to disappear?

God was not gone: but He so longed
His sweetness to impart,

He too was seeking for a home,
And found it in my heart.

Twice had I erred: a distant God Was what I could not bear ; Sorrows and cares were at my side; I longed to have Him there.

But God is never so far off
As even to be near;
He is within our spirit is

The home He holds most dear.

To think of Him as by our side
Is almost as untrue,

As to remove his throne beyond
Those skies of starry blue.

So all the while I thought myself
Homeless, forlorn, and weary,
Missing my joy, I walked the earth
Myself God's sanctuary.

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

THE NIGHT.

EAR night! this world's defeat;

DEAR

The stop to busy fools; care's check and
curb ;

The day of spirits; my soul's calm retreat
Which none disturb !

Christ's progress and his prayer-time;

The hours to which high Heaven doth chime.

God's silent, searching flight;

When my Lord's head is filled with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
His still, soft call;

His knocking time; the soul's dumb watch,
When spirits their fair kindred catch.

Were all my loud, evil days

Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,
Whose peace but by some angel's wing or voice
Is seldom rent;

Then I in Heaven all the long year

Would keep, and never wander here.

But living where the sun

Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire Themselves and others, I consent and run

To every mire;

And by this world's ill guiding light
Err more than I can do by night.

There is in God, some say,
A deep but dazzling darkness; as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
See not all clear.

Oh for that night, where I in Him
Might live invisible and dim!

HENRY VAUGHAN.

LONGING.

MY heart is full of inarticulate pain,

And beats laborious. Cold ungenial looks

Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain,

Wise in success, well-read in feeble books, No nigher come, I pray: your air is drear; 'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear!

Beloved, who love beauty and fair truth!

Come nearer me; too near ye cannot come : Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth; Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room Speak not a word, for see, my spirit lies Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes.

O all wide places, far from feverous towns!

Great shining seas! pine forests! mountains wild ! Rock-bosomed shores! rough heaths! and sheep-cropt downs!

Vast pallid clouds! blue spaces undefiled!

Room! give me room! give loneliness and air!
Free things and plenteous in your regions fair.

White dove of David, flying overhead,

Golden with sunlight on thy snowy wings, Outspeeding thee my longing thoughts are fled To find a home afar from men and things; Where in his temple, earth o'erarched with sky, God's heart to mine may speak, my heart reply.

O God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces!
O God of freedom and of joyous hearts!
When thy face looketh forth from all men's faces,
There will be room enough in crowded marts:
Brood thou around me, and the noise is o'er;
Thy universe my closet with shut door.

Heart, heart, awake! the love that loveth all
Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave.

God in thee, can his children's folly gall?
Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?-
Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm;

Thou art my solitude, my mountain-calm.

GEORGE MACDONALD.