But Thou art here to nerve and fashion For 'mid thy countless forms of being, Then, teach my heart, celestial Brightness, Of Truth and Love may I behold, J. STERLING. There are hours and they come to us all at some period of life or other, when the hand of mystery seems to lie heavy on the soul; when some life-shock scatters existence, leaves it a blank and dreary waste for ever, and there appears nothing of hope in all the expanse which stretches out, except that merciful gate of death which opens at the end-hours when the sense of misplaced or ill-requited affection, the feeling of personal worthlessness, the un F certainty and meanness of all human aims, and a doubt of all human goodness, unfix the soul from all its old moorings and leave it drifting-drifting over the vast Infinitude with an awful sense of solitariness. Then the man, whose faith rested : Well! in such moments you doubt all-whether Christianity be true: whether Christ was a Man or God, or a beautiful fable. You ask bitterly, like Pontius Pilate, what is Truth? In such an hour what remains? I reply, obedience leave those thoughts for the present : act be merciful and gentle-honest force yourself to abound in little services: try to do good to others be true to the duty that you know. That must be right, whatever else is uncertain. And by all the laws of the human heart, by the Word of God, you shall not be left to doubt. Do that much of the will of God, which is plain to you. You shall know of the doctrine whether it be of God. REV. F. ROBertson. Sweet daughter of the voice of God, Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove. Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe, From vain temptations dost set free And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity. WORDSWORTH. I met a reverend good old man, I did demand, he thus began :- At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase "He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes. But after death, out of his grave There sprang twelve stalks of wheat, Which many, wondering at, got some of these "It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth, For they, that taste it do rehearse, That virtues lie therein A secret virtue bringing peace and mirth "Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, And grows for you; Make bread of it; and that repose And peace which everywhere With so much earnestness thou dost pursue Is only there." HERBERT. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid. Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining; Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all. HEBER. God, the uncreated, the incomprehensible, the invisible, attracted but few worshippers. A philosopher might admire so noble a conception, but the crowd turned away in disgust from words which presented no image to their minds. It was before Deity, embodied in a human form, walking among men, partaking of their infirmities, leaning on their bosoms, weeping over their graves, slumbering in the manger, bleeding on the cross, that the prejudices of the synagogue, and the doubts of the academy, and the pride of the portico, and the fasces of the lictor, and the swords of thirty legions were humbled in the dust. MACAULAY. For Thou wert born of woman! Thou didst come Oh Holiest to this world of sin and gloom, Not in thy dread omnipotent array, And not by thunders strew'd Was Thy tempestuous road, Nor indignation burnt before Thee on thy way— But Thee, a soft and naked child, Thy mother undefiled In the rude manger laid to rest From off her virgin breast. The heavens were not commanded to prepare A gorgeous canopy of golden air; Nor stoop'd their lamps th' enthroned fires on high. Came wandering from afar, Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky, * And, when Thou did'st depart, no car of flame Nor o'er Thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake; At that foul deed, by her fierce children done. The world in darkness lay, Then basked in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun; While Thou didst sleep within the tomb Consenting to Thy doom, 'Ere yet the white robed angel shone Upon the sealed stone. And, when Thou didst arise, Thou didst not stand With devastation in thy red right hand, Plaguing the guilty city's murderous cries, But Thou didst haste to meet Thy mother's coming feet, |