We should trample the pride and the discontent
Beneath our feet;

We should take whatever a good God sent,
With a trust complete.

We should waste no moments in weak regret,
If the day were but one;

If what we remember and what we forget

Went out with the sun;

We should be from our clamorous selves set free, To work or to pray,

And to be what the Father would have us be, If we had but a day.

MARY LOWE DICKINSON.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem boid,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its

head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the

Lord."

66

"And is mine one?" said Abou. Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had
blessed,-

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

LEIGH HUNT.

LOVE.

IF suddenly upon the street

My gracious Saviour I should meet,
And he should say, "As I love thee,
What love hast thou to offer me?"
Then what could this poor heart of mine
Dare offer to that heart divine?

His eye would pierce my outward show,
His thought my inmost thought would know;
And if I said, "I love thee, Lord,"

He would not heed my spoken word,

Because my daily life would tell
If verily I loved him well.

If on the day or in the place
Wherein he met me face to face,
My life could show some kindness done,
Some purpose formed, some work begun
For his dear sake, then it were meet
Love's gift to lay at Jesus' feet.

CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON.

IV.

SABBATH: WORSHIP: CREED.

SUNDAY MORNING BELLS.

FROM the near city comes the clang of bells:
Their hundred jarring diverse tones combine
In one faint misty harmony, as fine

As the soft note yon winter robin swells.
What if to Thee in thine infinity

These multiform and many-colored creeds
Seem but the robe man wraps as masquers' weeds
Round the one living truth thou givest him-
Thee?

What if these varied forms that worship prove,
Being heart-worship, reach thy perfect ear

But as a monotone, complete and clear,

Of which the music is, through Christ's name, love?

Forever rising in sublime increase

To" Glory in the highest,-on earth peace"?

DINAH M. MULOCK CRAIK.

SABBATH HYMN ON THE MOUNTAINS.

PRAISE ye the Lord!

Not in the temple of shapeliest mould,
Polished with marble and gleaming with gold,
Piled upon pillars of slenderest grace,

But here in the blue sky's luminous face,
Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord!

Not where the organ's melodious wave

Dies 'neath the rafters that narrow the nave, But here with the free wind's wandering sweep, Here with the billow that booms from the deep, Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord!

Not where the pale-faced multitude meet

In the sweltering lane and the dun-visaged street, But here where bright ocean, thick sown with green isles,

Feeds the glad eye with a harvest of smiles,
Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord!

Here where the strength of the old granite Ben Towers o'er the greenswarded grace of the glen, Where the birch flings its fragrance abroad on the

hill,

And the bee of the heather-bloom wanders at will, Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord!

Here where the loch, the dark mountain's fair

daughter,

Down the red scaur flings the white-streaming

water,

Leaping and tossing and swirling forever,
Down to the bed of the smooth-rolling river,
Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord!

Not where the voice of a preacher instructs you, Not where the hand of a mortal conducts you,

But where the bright welkin in scripture of

glory

Blazons creation's miraculous story,

Praise ye the Lord!

Praise ye the Lord!

The wind and the welkin, the sun and the river, Weaving a tissue of wonders forever;

The mead and the mountain, the flower and the

tree,

What is their pomp, but a vision of thee,

Wonderful Lord?

Praise ye the Lord!

Not in the square-hewn, many-tiered pile,
Not in the long-drawn, dim-shadowed aisle,
But where the bright world, with age never

hoary,

Flashes her brightness and thunders his glory, Praise ye the Lord!

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

THE SABBATH MORNING.

WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still!
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne;
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill;

And echo answers softer from the hill;
And sweeter sings the linnet from the thorn:
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The rooks float silent by in airy drove;
The sun a placid yellow lustre throws;