And what of the quiet lake, calm and serene,
And the tarnished ore, under earth's carpet of green!
Oh, do not they worship because they are still!
They all, the place God hath appointed them, fill.
There is worship we feel when the forest is rife,
With music and sunshine and redolent life;

When the birds of the air and the flowers of the sod,
Join incense and anthem in worship of God.

But is there no worship when moonbeams steal through, And the giant rock, doth not that worship Him too? Labour is worship! When the might of man's mind Is set on such deeds as ennoble his kind;

When he strives to spread knowledge, or gladness, or health;

When he works with his hands, or endows with his wealth;

When thinketh the clear head, its thoughts deep and

wise;

And great truths like stars on man's destiny rise;
When writeth the bold hand in tone calm and strong,
The protest of right 'gainst oppression and wrong;
When the intellect lofty, or knowledge-stored mind,
Attuneth with hearts that are gentle and kind,
Then labour is worship! But, what if the toil
Be the meanest that ever was wrought on the soil?
Aye, then even then, if our duty be there;
For fulfilment of duty is eloquent prayer,—

H

Labour is worship; and therefore 'tis blest,
But surely they also may worship who rest.
Stars differ in glory, and thrones in estate;
They also may serve who have only to wait;
When the preacher or teacher of wisdom and truth,
When the leader of classes or guardian of youth,
When the poet or prophet forget for a time,
Provisions of good-aspirations sublime.
To stand by the couch of the weary and weak,
When burneth the brow, and paleth the cheek,
When lips that have uttered philosophy, move
With words of endearment and accents of love.
This also, is worship, for duty is there,
And fulfilment of duty is eloquent prayer.

EMMA MATHEWS.

LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF WILLIAM PENN.

No conqueror, or regal line,

Can boast of name so proud as thine;
Whose bright, pure cynosure of worth,
Like amaranthine flower on earth,
Doth bid devotion's feeling rise,
Whilst pointing upward to the skies!

I've loved to gaze on that sweet spot,
("Twere one when seen were ne'er forgot,)
Where oft thy early childhood strayed,
'Mid Stoke's fair bounds, or Burnham's glade,
Yet never felt my heart to bow,

With reverend thought, as it doth now!

Through thy long pilgrimage we trace
Thy love and workings for our race;
Ah! would that men, in pride of power,
Would listen to thy teaching hour!
Hate, strife, and warfare all should cease,
And nations hail the reign of peace!

Meekness and love in thee we see,
True faith, and low humility;
Thou ownedst, in affliction's rod,
Or prosperous hour, the hand of God!

Unheeding persecution's frown,

Thou hadst thy Cross! Thou hast thy Crown!*

*No Cross, No Crown" is the title of the best known and most powerfully written works of William Penn.

No spot that I have ever visited has left so indelible an impression upon my memory as that calm, quiet, secluded burial ground of Jordans, where, unmarked by monument or epitaph, repose the ashes of some of the earliest and most eminent members of the Society of Friends. There lie the remains of Thomas Elwood and wife, Isaac Pennington, and William Penn and family.

About two miles from Beaconsfield, on the road to Chalfont St. Giles, situated in the midst of a picturesque and wooded dell, the pilgrim to that lone

resting-place will descry the venerable old Meeting House of Jordans, half hidden by the dense foliage around; there, amid the grass-grown graves, the wild thyme sweetly blossoms, and countless flowers spring up around.

Meet, indeed, seemeth that sequestered spot, in its utter loneliness and calm repose, for the last resting-p ace of the benevolent founder of Pennsylvania, who went forth ardent and unwearying on his mission of love and peace.

I had lately stood beneath the sculptured trophies, with tattered banners waving over the tomb of Admiral Penn, in that rare old Church of St. Mary, Redcliffe, Bristol; but those relics and triumphs of war and bloodshed, enshrined on the gorgeous cenotaph of the father, shrunk into utter insignificance and worthlessness beside that unmarked but unforgotten grave of the far greater son.

W. H. PATCHING.

THE ADVENT.

Sweetly peals a holy anthem,
Echoed from the bending sky;

Listen to its precious burden

"Glory be to God on high!"

Hark! the mighty strains are breaking
From the angelic choirs again,

Like the ocean in its waking

"Peace on earth, goodwill to men!"

Bless the Son! Oh, not for ever

Shall the tide of ruin flow,

Writing through the wide earth's kingdoms,

66

Lamentation, mourning, wo!"

For, upon his glorious mission,
Comes the Prince Emmanuel,

Bringing, in his train from heaven,
Peace and truth on earth to dwell.

REV. ELNATHAN DAVIS.

THE SECOND ADVENT.

No sound of deadly strife,

No murderous lust of life,

Shall rend the air, or fill the hearts of men,
When, gentle as a dove,

Omnipotent in love,

The Prince of Peace shall visit earth again.

Oh then, where war had rolled,
Through ages dark and old,

His surging billows dyed with human gore;
The stream of God shall glide

To nations far and wide;

While love's deep anthem swells from shore to shore.

The inebriate's fount of wo,

For ever sealed, shall flow

No more, to desolate the homes of men:

The oppressor's iron rod,

Doomed by the living God,

Shall never smite the plundered poor again.