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O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,

The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night!

H. W. LONGfellow.

Heaven Calls and I Must Go.
AH! why should this immortal mind,

Enslaved by sense, be thus confined,
And never, never rise?

Why, thus amused with empty toys,
And soothed with visionary joys,
Forget her native skies?

The mind was formed to mount sublime,
Beyond the narrow bounds of time,
To everlasting things;

But earthly vapours cloud her sight,
And hang with cold oppressive weight
Upon her drooping wings.

The world employs its various snares,
Of hopes and pleasures, pains and cares,
And chained to earth I lie:

When shall
fettered powers
my
And leave these seats of vanity,

be free,

And upward learn to fly?

Bright scenes of bliss, unclouded skies,
Invite my soul;-O could I rise,
Nor leave a thought below!
I'd bid farewell to anxious care,
And say to every tempting snare,
"Heaven calls, and I must go."

Heaven calls, and can I yet delay?
Can aught on earth engage my stay?
Ah, wretched, lingering heart!

Come, Lord, with strength, and life, and light,
Assist and guide my upward flight,

And bid the world depart.

STEELE.

Hail, Holy Love !

HAIL, holy love! thou word that sums all bliss,

Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most

Thou givest! spring-head of all felicity,
Deepest when most is drawn! emblem of God!
O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink!
Essence that binds the uncreated Three,
Chain that unites creation to its Lord,
Centre to which all being gravitates,
Eternal, ever-growing, happy love!
Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all;
Instead of law, fulfilling every law;

Entirely blest, because thou seek'st no more,
Hopest not, nor fear'st; but on the present livest,
And hold'st perfection smiling in thy arms.

Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love!
On earth mysterious, and mysterious still
In heaven; sweet chord, that harmonises all
The harps of Paradise! the spring, the well,
That fills the bowl and banquet of the sky.
ROBERT POLLOK.

He Yearns to Forgive.

DIDST thou not hear how soft the day-wind

sighed,

How from afar that sweeping breath it drew, Waved the light rustling branches far and wide, Then died away, then rose and moaned anew? Sure if aright our morning prayers were said,

We in those tones the Almighty's unseen walk Shall hear, nor vainly shun the Presence dread, Which comes in mercy with our souls to talk. "Where art thou, child of earth ?" He seems to say,

"Why hide so deep from Love's all-seeing eye ?"—

"I heard and feared, for I have sinned to-day.". "What? know'st thou not the Almighty One was by?

"Think'st thou to lurk in yonder wavering boughs, Where even these earthly sunbeams glide and steal?

Nay, speed thee forth while yet high grace allows, Lay bare thy wounds to Him who waits to heal.

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They only rankle in th' unwholesome shade; But sun and air have soothing power, and He Yearns to forgive, when hearts are lowly laid, Even now behold His robe prepared for thee. "These fluttering leaves the more unveil thy shame;

Fall humbly down, and hide thine eyes in dust: He will upraise thee, for His own great Name; His penance garb will make and show thee just." ANON.

Hymn of the City.

Nor in the solitude

Alone, may man commune with Heaven, or see

Only in savage wood

And sunny vale, the present Deity;

Or only hear his voice

Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold

Thy steps, Almighty-here, amidst the crowd
Through the great city roll'd,

With everlasting murmur, deep and loud-
Choking the ways that wind

'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. Thy golden sunshine comes

From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes

For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores

Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy Spirit is around,

Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; And this eternal sound

Voices and footfalls of the numberless throngLike the resounding sea,

Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.

And when the hours of rest
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Hushing its billowy breast-

The quiet of that moment, too, is thine;
It breathes of Him who keeps

The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

W. C. BRYANT.

IN

Hope in God.

N thee, dear Lord, my pensive soul respires, Thou art the fulness of my choice desires; Thou art that sacred spring, whose waters burst In streams to him that seeks with holy thirst. Thrice happy man, thrice happy thirst, to bring Thy fainting soul to so, so sweet a spring; Thrice happy he, whose well-resolved breast Expects no other aid, no other rest;

Thrice happy he, whose downy age has been
Reclaimed by scourges from the pride of sin,
And early seasoned with the taste of truth,
Remembers his Creator in his youth.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

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