Within His temple-shrine of old

He bade the priests their watches hold; Still through the carven cedar flowers. The deep chant swelled at solemn hours, Still, day by day, the incense burning Crushed out its odors sweet; .

Still, morn and eve, the lamps were lighted Before the mercy-seat.

And Nature, with her quiet force

Of powers that keep their ordered course,
And circle on, we know not why,
Doth teach a hidden rule more high :
The dews may drop to feed the earth,
But why should planets glow?
Why should the golden daisy-cups
Look yearly from below?

Yet, night by night, so calmly pale,

The stars through heaven's blue ocean sail; Yet, year by year, like scattered beads,

The wild flowers come to deck our meads. All have their places and their parts

In heaven's sublime decrees,

And words, that seem to wander wide,
Shall find their end like these.

ON HEARING WEEK-DAY SERVICE AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY, SEPT. 1858.

ROM England's gilded halls of state
I crossed the Western Minster's gate,
And, 'mid the tombs of England's
dead,

I heard the Holy Scriptures read.

The walls around, and pillared piers,
Had stood wellnigh eight hundred years;
The words the priest gave forth had stood
Since Christ, and since before the Flood.

A thousand hearts around partook
The comfort of the Holy Book;
Ten thousand suppliant hands were spread
In lifted stone above my head.

In dust decayed the hands are gone
That fed and set the builders on;

In heedless dust the fingers lie

That hewed and heaved the stones on high;

And back to earth and air resolved

The brain that planned and poised the vault:

But undecayed, erect, and fair,

To Heaven ascends the builded Prayer,

With majesty of strength and size,
With glory of harmonious dyes,
With holy airs of heavenward thought
From floor to roof divinely fraught.

Fall down, ye bars: enlarge, my soul!
To heart's content take in the whole;
And, spurning pride's injurious thrall,
With loyal love embrace them all !

For in the presence vast and good
That bends o'er all our livelihood,
With humankind in heavenly cure,
We all are like: we all are poor.

And sure, God's poor shall never want
For service meet or seemly chant;
And for the Gospel's joyful sound
A fitting place shall still be found;

Whether the organ's solemn tones
Thrill through the dust of warriors' bones,

Or voices of the village choir
From swallow-haunted eaves aspire ;

Or, sped with healing on its wings,
The Word solicit ears of kings,
Or stir the souls, in moorland glen,
Of kingless covenanted men.

Enough for Thee, indulgent Lord,
The willing ear to hear Thy Word;
And, time and place to match, the tale
For willing ears shall never fail.

A

JACOB'S LADDER.

H many a time we look on starlit nights.
Up to the sky, as Jacob did of old
Look longing up to the eternal lights

To spell their lines in gold.

But never more, as to the Hebrew boy,
Each on his way the angels walk abroad;
And never more we hear with awful joy,
The audible voice of God.

Yet, to pure eyes the ladder still is set,
And angel visitants still come and go,
Many bright messengers are moving yet
From the dark world below.

Thoughts, that are red-crossed faith's outspreading wings,

Prayers of the Church, are keeping time and

tryst,

Heart-wishes, making bee-like murmurings,
Their flower the Eucharist.