Yea more, with His own hand He seemed
Intent to aggravate my woe;

Crossed all the fair designs I schemed,
Blasted my gourds, and laid me low.

"Lord, why is this?" I trembling cried,
"Wilt Thou pursue thy worm to death ?”.
""Tis in this way," the Lord replied,
"I answer prayer for grace and faith."
"These inward trials I employ,
From self and pride to set thee free;
And break thy schemes of earthly joy,

That thou mayest seek thy all in Me."

NEWTON.

Mine is an Unchanging Love.

HA

ARK, my soul! it is the Lord; 'Tis thy Saviour, hear His word; Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee; "Say, poor sinner,-lovest thou me?

"I delivered thee when bound,

And, when wounded, healed thy wound;
Sought thee wandering, set thee right,
Turned thy darkness into light.

"Mine is an unchanging love,
Higher than the heights above;
Deeper than the depths beneath;
Free and faithful, strong as death.

"Thou shalt see my glory soon,
When the work of grace is done;
Partner of my throne shall be:
Say, poor sinner,-lovest thou me ?"

Lord, it is my chief complaint,
That my love is weak and faint:
Yet I love Thee, and adore,—

Oh! for grace to love Thee more!

WILLIAM COWPER.

My Wounded Spirit longs to fly.

0,

HAPPY, happy he, who flies

Far from the noisy world away,Who, with the worthy and the wise, Hath chosen the narrow way,—

The silence of the secret road

That leads the soul to virtue and to God!

No passions in his breast arise:

Calm in his own unaltered state,

He smiles superior, as he eyes

The splendour of the great;
And his undazzled gaze is proof
Against the glittering hall and gilded roof.

He heeds not, though the trump of fame
Pour forth the loudest of its strains,

To spread the glory of his name;

And his high soul disdains

That flattery's voice should varnish o'er

The deed that truth or virtue would abhor.

Such lot be mine: what boots to me
The cumbrous pageantry of power;
To court the gaze of crowds, and be
The idol of the hour;

To chase an empty shape of air,

That leaves me weak with toil and worn with care?

O streams, and shades, and hills on high,

Unto the stillness of your breast

My wounded spirit longs to fly,—
To fly, and be at rest!

Thus from the world's tempestuous sea,
O gentle Nature, do I turn to thee!

Be mine the holy calm of night,

Soft sleep and dreams serenely gay,
The freshness of the morning light,
The fulness of the day;

Far from the sternly frowning eye
That pride and riches turn on poverty.

The warbling birds shall bid me wake
With their untutored melodies;
No fearful dream my sleep shall break,
No wakeful cares arise,

Like the sad shapes that hover still
Round him that hangs upon another's will.

Be mine my hopes to Heaven to give,

To taste the bliss that Heaven bestows, Alone and for myself to live,

And 'scape the many woes

That human hearts are doomed to bear,

The pangs of love, and hate, and hope, and fear.

A garden by the mountain-side

Is mine, whose flowery blossoming Shows, even in spring's luxuriant pride, What autumn's suns shall bring: And from the mountain's lofty crown

A clear and sparkling rill comes trembling down;

Then pausing in its downward force

The venerable trees among,

It gurgles on its winding course;
And, as it glides along,

Gives freshness to the day, and pranks
With ever changing flowers its mossy banks.

The whisper of the balmy breeze

Scatters a thousand sweets around, And sweeps in music through the trees,

With an enchanting sound,

That laps the soul in calm delight,

Where crowns and kingdoms are forgotten quite.

Theirs let the dear-bought treasure be,

Who in a treacherous bark confide;

I stand aloof, and changeless see

The changes of the tide,

Nor fear the wail of those that weep,

When angry winds are warring with the deep:

Day turns to night; the timbers rend;
More fierce the ruthless tempest blows;
Confused the varying cries ascend,

As the sad merchant throws

His hoards, to join the stores that lie
In the deep sea's uncounted treasury.

Mine be the peaceful board of old,
From want as from profusion free:
His let the massy cup of gold,

And glittering baubles be,

Who builds his baseless hope of gain
Upon a brittle bark and stormy main.
While others, thoughtless of the pain
Of hope delayed and long suspense,
Still struggle on to guard or gain
A sad preeminence,
May I, in woody covert laid,

Be gayly chanting in the secret shade,—

At ease within the shade reclined,
With laurel and with ivy crowned,

And my attentive ear inclined

To catch the heavenly sound

Of harp or lyre, when o'er the strings
Some master-hand its practised finger flings.

LUIS PONCE DE LEON, Trans. Anon.

My Life, my Joy, my Strength, my All!

THOU great Power! in whom I
For whom I live, to whom I die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,

Whilst on this couch of tears I lie;
And cleanse my sordid soul within
By thy Christ's blood, the bath for sin.

move,