DARK the faith of days of yore,
“And at evening evermore

Did the chanters, sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
Doleful masses chant to thee,
Miserere, Domine!"

Bright the faith of coming days,
And when dawn the kindling rays
Of heaven's golden lamp ascending,
Happy hearts and voices blending,
Joyful anthems chant to thee,
Te laudamus, Domine!

Night's sad "cadence dies

away

On the yellow, moonlight sea;

The boatmen rest their oars, and say,

Miserere, Domine !"

Morn's glad chorus swells alway

On the azure, sunlight sea;

The boatmen ply their oars, and say, Te laudamus, Domine!

As once, upon Athenian ground,
Shrines, statues, temples, all around,
The man of Tarsus trod,—
Midst idol-altars, one he saw

That filled his breast with sacred awe:
'Twas-" To the unknown God."

Age after age has rolled away,
Altars and thrones have felt decay,
Sages and saints have risen;
And, like a giant roused from sleep,
Man has explored the pathless deep,
And lightnings snatched from heaven.

Yet still, where'er presumptuous man
His Maker's essence strives to scan,
And lifts his feeble hands,

Though saint and sage their powers unite
To fathom that abyss of light,

Ah! still that altar stands.

"MAKE us a god," said man:

Power first the voice obeyed;

And soon a monstrous form

Its worshippers dismayed;

Uncouth and huge, by nations rude adored,
With savage rites and sacrifice abhorred.

"Make us a god," said man:

Art next the voice obeyed;
Lovely, serene, and grand,

Uprose the Athenian maid;

The perfect statue, Greece, with wreathed brows, Adores in festal rites and lyric vows.

"Make us a god," said man:
Religion followed Art,

And answered, "Look within;

God is in thine own heart-

His noblest image there, and holiest shrine,
Silent revere-and be thyself divine."

WHETHER men reap or sow the fields,
Her admonitions Nature yields;

That not by bread alone we live,
Or what a hand of flesh can give ;
That every day should leave some part
Free for a sabbath of the heart:

So shall the seventh be truly blest
From morn till eve with hallowed rest.

XCIV.

WHILE I do rest, my soul advance,
Let me sleep a holy trance,

That I may take my rest being wrought
Awake into some holy thought;
And with as cheerful vigour run
My course, as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death: O let me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die!
And down as gently lay my head
On my grave, as on my bed—
Howe'er I rest, great God! let me
Awake again, at last, with thee!

O GOD, unchangeable and true,
Of all the life and power,
Dispensing light and silence through
Every successive hour:

Lord, brighten our declining day,

That it may never wane,

Till death, when all things round decay,
Brings back the morn again.

XCVI.

O MAKE Our hearts, blest God, thy dwelling-place; And in our breast

Be pleased to rest,

For thou such temples lovest best;
And cause that sin

May not profane the Deity within,

And sully o'er the ornaments of

XCVII.

grace.

LORD, let the flames of holy Charity,
And all her gifts and graces, slide
Into our hearts, and there abide;
That, thus refined, we may soar above
With it unto the element of love—

Even unto thee, dear Spirit

And there eternal peace and rest inherit.

Amen.