Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;

Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies:
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee:
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!"

There is a soft sadness throughout this last poem that seems to come from a soul that is longing to feel the Divine Presence.

The spirit of humility is beautifully expressed in a sonnet by Barnabe Barnes, and we feel at once that we have found a lyric very like the Victorian, but the Victorian treatment of humility far surpasses anything found among the Elizabethan lyrics. And through all it seems to be the poet's belief that this spirit cannot be shown unless the speaker is moved to tears.

THE TALENT,

By Barnabe Barnes.

(Schelling, page 81.)

"Gracious, Divine, and most Ormipotent!
Receive thy servant's talent in good part,
Which hid it not, but willing did convert
It to best use he could, when it was lent:
The sum though slender, yet not all misspent
Receive, dear God of grace, from cheerful heart
Of him that knows how merciful thou art,
And with what grace to contrite sinners bent.
I know my fault, I did not as I should;
My sinful flesh against my soul rebelled;
But since I did endeavor what I could,
Let not my little nothing be withheld
From thy rich treasuries of endless grace;
But, for thy sake, let it procure a place."

JUST AS I AM,

By Charlotte Elliott.

(Vic. An., p. 169.)

"Just as I am, without one plea
But that thy blood was shed for me,
And that thou bid'st me come to thee,
O Lamb of God, I come!

Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind;
Sight, riches, healing of the mind,
Yea, all I need, in thee to find,
O Lamb of God, I come! "

Perhaps none of the sacred lyrics are more interest

ing than those treating of the heavenly journey.

There is

the joyous tone of the bearers of "palms of victory," and the one supreme thought seems to be the magnificence of the material grandeur of Heaven.

HIS PILGRIMAGE,

By Sir Walter Raleigh.

(Schelling, page 129)

"Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,

My gown of glory, hope's true gate;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer,

No other balm will there be given;
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;

ven;