LVI.

MUSIC.

ND storied windows, richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light;
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,

In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all heaven before mine eyes.

Milton.

LVII.

THE LYRE.

HERE is a living spirit in the lyre,
A breath of music and a soul of fire;
It speaks a language to the world un-
known;

It speaks that language to the bard alone.

LVIII.

ST. AUGUSTINE.

HE child of tears, the child of tears,
Of many hopes and anxious fears,
Is better than the child whose birth
Is ushered in with sounds of mirth.

Think not that nought is well below,
Save when the tides of pleasure flow;
For tears can come from God above,
The sacred tears of mother's love.

Despair not of thy wayward son,
Nor think that all thou canst is done;
For not in vain those tears are shed,
They must bring blessings on his head.

He cannot, must not, shall not die;
His life is ransomed for the sky;
Where God Himself shall dry thy tears,
And joys eternal banish fears.

Grief-wasted Mother, go thy way,

Be sure thy tears have won the day;
For prayers can ope the gates of Heaven;
All force to prayers and tears is given.*
Mackenzie.

LIX.

MELANCTHON.

IS sun went down in cloudless skies,
Assured upon the morn to rise

In lovelier array.

But not, like earth's declining light,
To vanish back again to night;

The zenith where he now shall glow,
No bound, no setting beam can know—
Without a cloud or shade of woe

In that eternal day.

LX.

LYCIDAS.

EEP no more, woful shepherds, weep no more.
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watery flood!
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, with new and spangled ore,
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky;

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves.

Milton.

*The above lines are a sort of paraphrase from the confessions of S. Augustine, l. iii. c. ult. by the late F. Mackenzie.

LXI.

MILTON.

OR second He that rode sublime,
Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy,
The secrets of the abyss to spy;

He passed the flaming bounds of place
and time :

The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.

LXII.

GEORGE WHITFIELD.

Gray.

E loved the world that hated him-the tear

That dropped upon his Bible was sin

cere ;

Assailed by scandal and the tongue of strife,

His only answer was a blameless life;

And he that forged, and he that drew the dart Had each a brother's interest in his heart.

Cowper.

LXIII.

SCHWARTZ.

IRM wast thou, humble and wise,
Honest, pure, free from disguise;
Father of orphans, the widow's support;
Comfort in sorrow of every sort.

To the benighted, dispenser of light;
Doing and pointing to that which is right;
Blessing to princes, to people, to me :
May I, my Father, be worthy of Thee,
Wishes and prayeth thy Sarabojee.

The Rajah Sarabojee.

LXIV.

HENRY MARTYN.

ERE Martyn lies! In manhood's early bloom, The Christian hero found a Pagan tomb. Religion, sorrowing o'er her fav'rite son, Points to the glorious trophies which he won. Immortal trophies! Not with slaughter red, Nor stained with tears by hapless orphans shed; But trophies of the cross! In that dear name, Through every scene of danger, toil, and shame, Onward he journeyed to that peaceful shore, Where danger, toil, and shame are known no more. Macaulay.

暖

LXV.
LIFE.

IVE while you live, the Epicure will say,

And give to pleasure each returning day ;

Live while you live, the Sacred Preacher cries,

And give to God each moment as it flies :

Lord, in my view let both united be!

I live to pleasure while I live to Thee.

LXVI.
LIFE.

Doddridge.

JUR birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar-

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home-

Heaven lies around us in our infancy;

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy

Yet he beholds the light, and whence it flows;

He sees it in his joy.

Wordsworth.

LXVII.

DEATH.

O me the thought of death is terrible, Having such a hold on life. To thee it is not

So much even as the lifting of a latch

Only a step into the open air

Out of a tent already luminous

With light that shines through its transparent walls.

LXVIII.

DEATH.

WHAT is death? 'Tis life's last shore,
Where vanities are vain no more;
Where all pursuits their goal obtain,
And life is all retouched again.

LXIX.

IN MEMORIAM.

FOND and loving Spirit, thou
Far, far away from me art now;
I miss the hand of friendship true,
The heart that all my feelings knew.

But while my grief thus fills my heart,
Thou in God's bosom lying art:
Freed from the body's yoke at last,
The gentle soul to life has past.

No, Spirit! not one moment e'en
Would I recall thee to this scene.
Thou wert full worthy of my love,
And God hath quickened thee above.