When this aching heart shall rest,
All its busy pulses o'er,

From her mortal robes undrest,

Shall my spirit upward soar; Then shall unimagined joy

All my thoughts and powers employ.

Here devotion's healing balm

Often comes to soothe my breast,
Hours of deep and holy calm,
Earnests of eternal rest;
But the bliss was here unknown,
Which shall there be all my own.

Jesus reigns, the Life, the Sun,
Of that wondrous world above;
All the clouds and storms are gone,
All is light and all is love:

All the shadows melt away

In the blaze of perfect day.

LANGE.

Hymns from the Land of Luther.

Praise for Earth's Lessons.

H, beautiful

Art thou, earth, albeit worse Than in heaven is called good! Good to us, that we may know Meekly from thy good to go; While the holy, crying blood, Puts its music, kind and low, "Twixt such ears as are not dull, And thine ancient curse.

Praised be the mosses soft

In thy forest pathways oft,

And the thorns, which make us think Of the thornless river-brink

Where the ransomed tread.

Praised be thy sunny gleams,

And the storm, that worketh dreams

Of calm unfinished.

Praised be thine active days,

And thy night-time's solemn need,
When in God's dear Book we read,
No night shall be therein.
Praised be thy dwellings, warm

By household faggots' cheerful blaze,
Where, to hear of pardoned sin,
Pauseth oft the merry din,

Who croweth to the crackling wood.
Yea, and better understood,

Praised be thy dwellings cold,

Hid beneath the churchyard mould,
Where the bodies of the saints
Separate from earthly taints
Lie asleep, in blessing bound,
Waiting for the trumpet's sound
To free them into blessing; none
Weeping more beneath the sun,
Though dangerous words of human love
Be graven very near, above.

Earth, we Christians praise thee thus,
Even for the change that comes

With a grief from thee to us:
For thy cradles and thy tombs,
For the pleasant corn and wine
And summer-heat, and also for
The frost upon the sycamore,

And hail upon the vine.

My Psalm.

E. B. BROWNING.

MOURN no more my vanished years :

Beneath a tender rain,

An April rain, of smiles and tears,

My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and sighing low
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind,
I look in hope or fear;

But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,

To

reap but weed and tare;

The manna dropping from God's hand Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim-staff,-I lay

Aside my toiling oar;

The angel sought so far away,
I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,

Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the autumn morn.

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
Through fringed lids to heaven,
And the pale aster in the brook

Shall see its image given.

The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south wind softly sigh,

And sweet calm days, in golden haze

Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word

Rebuke an age of wrong;

The graven flowers that wreath the sward, Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal,

To build as to destroy;

Not less my heart for others feel,

That I the more enjoy.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,

And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told.

Enough that blessings undeserved
Have marked my erring track;
That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back;

That more and more a providence
Of love is understood,

Making the springs of time and sense

Sweet with eternal good;