CONSOLATION.

BUT the faint soul must bear up its own weight,
And pitying love and kind officiousness
Cannot assuage, nor make the burden less,
Probing the unbarbed spirit, that too late
Its overstrained pinion doth abate,

And from each gale, unstrung and motionless,
Catcheth a tone of deeper loneliness,
And desolation makes more desolate.
Then darkly gleams the mighty mystery,
That He who bore our sorrows, yea, that He
Alone, the soul can bear, the spirit fill,
Fleeing from the dark phantom of unrest
Into the arms of mercy, calmly blest,
"Do with me what thou wilt, I will lie still."

A CHURCHMAN'S PRIVATE MEDITATIONS.

A WALK TO THE SEA.

THE flowers upon the mountain's side
Like lonely spirits dwell,
Where beauty finds a place to hide
In many a secret cell.

And now the wild variety

Of sea-weeds on the shore,
And shells of glorious ancestry,
Old Ocean's beauteous floor.

There came in these a healing sense,

To thoughts of my despair;

A living and felt evidence

Of sweet protecting care.

If thus His presence stands confest
In shell, and flower, and stone,
To Him each want within my breast,
And every pain is known.

And now I feel me strong again,
To join your living songs;
All animate, thou vocal main,
With never resting tongues.

And ye that stand in gloom profound,
Like sentry of the strand,

Ye everlasting hills around,

A bold fraternal band.

And she that from her silver boat
Leans o'er the summer sea,

The moon, takes up the glorious note
In quiet majesty.

The moon, the mountains, and the sea,
Are in thy sheltering hand;
But they are all no more to thee
Than pebbles on the strand.
And though a sea of voices rise
Throughout the boundless sky,
Thou hear'st the inexpressed cries
Of one as mean as I.

A WAKING THOUGHT.

O'ER the dark mountain,

Where the houseless shepherds roam;

By the lone fountain,

Where the wild bee hath her home;

To the desert strand,

Where the crown-bent palm-tree cowers;
To moon-lit Lapland,

By the Geyser's watery towers;

'Neath halls of ocean,

'Mid the rocks and glassy cells;

Caves aye in motion,

Where the wondrous sea snake dwells;

On the white billow,

With the wild sea bird at play;

'Neath a grey willow,

With a dappled hind at bay

Scenes out of number,

With her own bright night and day,

From chains of slumber

Where the spirit bursts away.

Born soon to sunder

The flesh bars of earth,

And dwell in wonder

With the God who gave her birth.

THE AGED PARISHIONER.*

Ναὶ δὴ ταῦτά γε πάντα γέρον, κατὰ μοῖραν ἔειπες.—I1. α. 286.

• The writer

My limbs will scarcely bear me now

The new-made grave to see,

And dull and dreary sounds the bell,

So soon to toll for me.

Fourscore long years have weighed me down,

Long years of toil and care,

Since I was borne to yonder font,

says,

And made a Christian there.

"The above is a most faithful version of what struck me as an

I

interesting communication of a poor old octogenarian parishioner of mine. scarcely know what name to call it by; but if the humble confession of faith in

humble vehicle in which it is conveyed with favour, perhaps you will think it worth while to give it a name." The Editor feels the same difficulty as the author.

And moss has grown o'er many a stone
To hide the tale it told,

And many a stout and powerful bone
Hath crumbled into mould,

Since I was gathered with the young
Among the tombs to play,
And every funeral gave to us
A thoughtless holiday;

And I was gay and light as these,
Though all like fancy seems,

As if it were not really so,

But only dreamt in dreams.

Since then how often every house
Hath days of sorrow seen,
How often every door around
By mourners darkened been!

My husband and my babes, O God!
Thou wast not pleased to spare;
And none are left me now to ask
My blessing, or my prayer.

The children of my children, too,
Beneath the yew tree sleep,

Save him whom, for his wickedness,
They sent beyond the deep.

And 'twould have saved my eyelids old

From many a bitter tear,

If he, poor boy! in infancy

Had lain beside them here:

For black and heavy was his guilt;
He broke the chancel-door,
And stole-it was a fearful deed-
The savings of the poor.

Some say 'tis wrong to pray for him;
I cannot think it so ;

For all unbounded is the love

Of Christ, our Lord, I know.

Full well I know the blest intent
For which my Saviour died,
To spread for all who should repent
The gates of mercy wide.

O beautiful, indeed, their feet

These tidings who proclaim!

And sweet, indeed, the voice of those,

Who praise that holy name!

And though my ears are stopped by age, Yet much I love to see

The lips of sinners stirred in church,

On meek and bended knee;

In vain for me God's minister
Doth week by week declare,
The treasures that are open still
To penitence and prayer;

Yet doth it joy my heart to know
That others may be moved,
That others hear the glorious sounds
I once so dearly loved.

And still I pray in silentness,

Whene'er my strength shall fail,

To bear me to my ancient seat

Against the chancel-rail,

That soon that bell may bid them come

My aged limbs to see

Passing in quiet to their home

Beneath the old yew tree.

S. P. R.+

HOLY MARTYRS.

HOLY martyrs! in our bosoms swelling thoughts of you arise,
You, the after-types among us of the one great Sacrifice;
Swelling thoughts, how little worthy of your faith and constancy
We who walk 'mid sin and sorrow, and 'mid all securely die.
Now no heathen sovereigns bid us scatter incense on the flame,
Now no tyrant sternly tempts to abjure the Saviour's name;
Peaceful temples, where the bodies of the saints departed rest-
Peaceful altars, where the faithful on their journey are refresht.

E'en the idle world's caressing, courtesy, and show of love,
Sugar'd words, and smiles unsought for-smiles, alas! our faith to prove,
These are ours. Holy martyrs! from your radiant thrones on high,
Gaze you on a people worthy of so tranquil destiny?

Faint our hearts-and as the tempest from the burning lake of woe
Grimly moans in herald threat'ning of the path it soon must go,
Scarce we lift our timorous glances to the hills of hope divine,
Scarce we speak of victory promised to the Christian battle-sign.
Sainted souls! we droop and tremble, nerveless amid dreams of peace,
In vain hope that faithless brethren from their troubling yet may cease.
When the apostate bids us follow on his churchless, godless way,
May we have the hearts that won you heavenly crowns in endless day.
ORIELENSIS.