One rock amid the weltering floods,
One torch in a tempestuous night,

One changeless pine in fading woods :—
Such is the thought of Love and Might,
True Might and ever-present Love,

When Death is busy near the throne, And Sorrow her keen sting would prove On Monarch's orphan'd and alone.

In that lorn hour and desolate,

Who could endure a crown? but He, Who singly bore the world's sad weight, Is near, to whisper, "Lean on me : "Thy days of toil, thy nights of care, "Sad lonely dreams in crowded hall, "Darkness within, while pageants glare "Around-the Cross supports them all."

O Promise of undying Love!

While Monarchs seek thee for repose, Far in the nameless mountain cove

Each pastoral heart thy bounty knows. Ye, who in place of shepherds true Come trembling to their awful trust,

Lo here the fountain to imbue

With strength and hope your feeble dust.

Not upon Kings or Priests alone

The power of that dear word is spent ; It chants to all in softest tone

The lowly lesson of Content:

Heaven's light is pour'd on high and low; To high and low Heaven's Angel spake; Resign thee to thy weal or woe,

66

"I ne'er will leave thee nor forsake."

ORDINATION.

After this, the Congregation shall be desired, secretly in their prayers, to make their humble supplications to God for all these things: for the which prayers there shall be silence kept for a space.

After which shall be sung or said by the Bishop (the persons to be ordained Priests all kneeling) " Veni, Creator Spiritus."

Rubric in the Office for Ordering of Priests.

"TWAS silence in thy temple, Lord,

When slowly through the hallow'd air

The spreading cloud of incense soar'd,

Charg'd with the breath of Israel's prayer.

"Twas silence round thy throne on high, When the last wondrous seal unclos'da,

And in the portals of the sky

Thine armies awfully repos'd.

Rev. viii. 1. When He had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in Heaven about the space of half-an-hour.

And this deep pause, that o'er us now,
Is hovering-comes it not of Thee?
Is it not like a Mother's vow,

When with her darling on her knee,

She weighs and numbers o'er and o'er Love's treasure hid in her fond breast,

To cull from that exhaustless store

The dearest blessing and the best?

And where shall Mother's bosom find,
With all its deep love-learned skill,

A prayer so sweetly to her mind,

As, in this sacred hour and still,

Is wafted from the white-rob'd choir,

Ere yet the pure high-breathed lay, "Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire," Rise floating on its dovelike way.

And when it comes, so deep and clear
The strain, so soft the melting fall,

It seems not to th' entranced ear

Less than thine own heart-cheering cally

Spirit of Christ-thine earnest given

That these our prayers are heard, and they, this hour, the sword of Heaven, Shall feel Thee on their weary way.

Who grasp,

Oft as at morn or soothing eve

Over the Holy Fount they lean,
Their fading garland freshly weave,
Or fan them with thine airs serene,

Spirit of Light and Truth! to Thee

We trust them in that musing hour, Till they, with open heart and free,

Teach all Thy word in all its power.

When foemen watch their tents by night,
And mists hang wide o'er moor and fell,

Spirit of Counsel and of Might,

Their pastoral warfare guide Thou well.

And O! when worn and tir'd they sigh
With that more fearful war within,

When Passion's storms are loud and high,
And brooding o'er remember'd sin