PERRONET.

Saints, in glory perfect made,
Wait thy passage through the shade:
Ardent for thy coming o'er,

See, they throng the blissful shore.
Mount, their transports to improve:
Join the longing choir above:
Swiftly to their wish be given:
Kindle higher joy in heaven.

-Such the prospects that arise
To the dying Christian's eyes!
Such the glorious vista, Faith
Opens through the shades of death!

405

EDWARD PERRONET.

Except that he lived at Canterbury, and was the son of the vicar of Shoreham, Kent, we can give no information regarding the author of the following hymn-one of the noblest in the language, and with its own tune, "Miles Lane," one of the best known to English congregations.

Crown Him Lord of All.

All hail the power of Jesus' name!
Let angels prostrate fall:
Bring forth the royal diadem,
And crown Him Lord of all.

Crown Him, ye martyrs of our God,
Who from His altar call;

Extol the stem of Jesse's rod,

And crown Him Lord of all.

Ye chosen seed of Israel's race,
A remnant weak and small;
Hail Him who saves you by His grace,
And crown Him Lord of all.

Ye Gentile sinners, ne'er forget
The wormwood and the gall;
Go, spread your trophies at His feet,
And crown Him Lord of all.

Let every kindred, every tribe,
On this terrestrial ball,
To Him all majesty ascribe,
And crown Him Lord of all.

Oh that with yonder sacred throng
We at His feet may fall,
There join the everlasting song,
And crown Him Lord of all!

CHARLES WESLEY.

To the organising faculty and amazing activity of John Wesley, there was provided a remarkable antithesis or supplement in the poetic fire of his brother Charles; and to the society so wonderfully brought together by the practical energy of the one, there was supplied an element of continual inspiration by the genius and fervour of the other. Keeping higher influences out of sight, the Wesleyan Hymn-book is to the Wesleyan Connexion very much what the soul is to the body; and although John Wesley himself and many others contributed, the collection owes its distinctive charm to that triumphant spirit who poured forth the "good matter" of the gospel in strains which often remind us of the harp of Pindar.

"Those hymns are sung now in collieries and copper mines. How many has their heavenly music strengthened to meet death in the dark coal-pit; on how many dying hearts have they come back, as from a mother's lips, on the battle-field; beside how many death-beds have they been chanted by trembling voices, and listened to with joy unspeakable; how many have they supplied with prayer and praise, from the first thrill

of spiritual fear to the last rapture of heavenly hope! They echo along the Cornish moors, as the corpse of the Christian miner is borne to his last resting-place; they cheer with heavenly messages the hard bondage of slavery; they have been the first words of thanksgiving on the lips of the liberated negro; they have given courage to brave men, and patience to suffering women; they have been a liturgy engraven on the hearts of the poor; they have borne the name of Jesus far and wide, and have helped to write it deep on countless hearts. And England is no more without a people's hymn-book."*

CHARLES WESLEY was born at Epworth, December 18, 1708, and died at London, March 29, 1788.

*

The Day of Judgment.

Stand the omnipotent decree:
Jehovah's will be done!
Nature's end we wait to see,
And hear her final groan:

Let this earth dissolve, and blend
In death the wicked and the just;
Let those ponderous orbs descend,
And grind us into dust.

Rests secure the righteous man!
At his Redeemer's beck,
Sure to emerge, and rise again,

And mount above the wreck;

Lo! the heavenly spirit towers,

Like flame, o'er nature's funeral pyre,

Triumphs in immortal powers,

And claps his wings of fire!

Nothing hath the just to lose,

By worlds on worlds destroy'd;

"The Voice of Christian Life in Song," by the Author of "Tales and Sketches of Christian Life." (P. 264.) A volume of exquisite taste a nd delightful instruction.

Far beneath his feet he views,
With smiles, the flaming void:
Sees the universe renew'd,

The grand millennial reign begun;
Shouts, with all the sons of God,
Around the eternal throne!

Resting in this glorious hope
To be at last restored,
Yield we now our bodies up

To earthquake, plague, or sword:
Listening for the call divine,

The latest trumpet of the seven,
Soon our soul and dust shall join,
And both fly up to heaven.

Wrestling Jacob.

Come, O thou Traveller unknown,
Whom still I hold, but cannot see!
My company before is gone,

And I am left alone with Thee:
With Thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day.

I need not tell Thee who I am,
My misery and sin declare;
Thyself hast call'd me by my name,

Look on my hands, and read it there: But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou? Tell me Thy name, and tell me now.

In vain Thou strugglest to get free,
I never will unloose my hold!
Art Thou the Man that died for me?
The secret of Thy love unfold:
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,
Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know.

Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal
Thy new, unutterable Name?
Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell:

To know it now, resolved I am: