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All the words unheedingly

Fell from lips untouch'd by care, Dreaming not that they might be

On some other lips a prayer'Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.' 'Rock of Ages, cleft for me'

'Twas a woman sung them now, Sung them slow and wearily

Wan hand on her aching brow. Rose the song as storm-toss'd bird Beats with weary wing the air, Every note with sorrow stirr'd— Every syllable a prayerRock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.'

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Rock of Ages, cleft for me'

Lips grown aged sang the hymn Trustingly and tenderly―

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim— 'Let me hide myself in Thee.'

Trembling through the voice and low, Ran the sweet strain peacefully,

Like a river in its flow.

Sung as only they can sing

Who life's thorny paths have press'd; Sung as only they can sing

Who behold the promised rest'Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.'

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,'
Sung above a coffin lid;
Underneath, all restfully,

All life's joys and sorrows hid,
Never more, O storm-toss'd soul!
Never more from wind or tide,
Never more from billows' roll,
Wilt thou need to hide.
Could the sightless, sunken eyes,
Closed beneath the soft grey hair;
Could the mute and stiffen'd lips
Move again in pleading prayer,
Still, ay, still the words would be,
'Let me hide myself in Thee.'

3012. ROCK OF AGES. The

THE sea is flashing its silver light,

And fiercely its surface gleams;

There is not a cloud in the wide blue sky

To temper its burning beams.

But cool in the shadow the great Rock throws I sit through the scorching day,

While the white rocks glitter, and ships go by, And the glad waves tireless play.

And I think of One who has thrown for me,
In the midst of a weary land,

A great Rock's shadow where I might rest,
Though the sun was on every hand;
Where life's hot fever could touch me not,

But happy, and safe, and calm,

Through the smiting heat I could sit and sing The words of a thankful psalm.

The sea was angry and rough one day,
And its waves like mountains rose;
And the restless waters heaved and rush'd,
Nor an instant had repose.

I saw the wreck of a ship that sank,
Beaten in stormy strife,

But I was safe on the mighty Rock,
Living a tranquil life.

So the Rock of Ages has been to me

A refuge and safe retreat,

A hiding-place from the storms of life,
As well as from life's fierce heat;
Waves have beaten and tempests howl'd,

But happy and safe are they

Who are hidden away in the great Rock's cleft In the dangerous stormy day.

The winds were armies of conquering foes

Smiting the trembling trees,

And over the hills in their might they came

Lashing the foaming seas.

But I clung to the Rock till the wild hour pass'd,

For nothing could harm me there;

The rocks are firm in the tempest times,

As well as in balmy air.

And I said, I will cling to my Rock of strength,
Whatever the day may be.

I am safe, and happy, and calm, and free,
For no danger can reach to me.
And oh, that the joy may be one day,

From the might of the creeping waves,
To lift some helpless and drowning ones
To the height of the Rock that saves.
Marianne Farningham.

3013. RUMOUR.

RUMOUR is a pipe

Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,

And of so easy and so plain a stop,

That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still discordant wavering multitude,
Can play upon it.—Shakespeare.

The flying rumours gather'd as they roll'd; Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told,

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In heavenly flowers unfolding week by week; The next world's gladness imaged forth in this; Days of whose worth the Christian's heart can speak!

Eternity on time, the steps by which

We climb to future ages, lamps that light
Man through his darker days, and thought enrich,
Yielding redemption for a week's dull flight.
Wakeners of prayers in man, his resting bowers
As on he journeys in the narrow way,
Where, Eden-like, Jehovah's walking hours
Are waited for as in the cool of day.

Days fix'd by God for intercourse with dust,
To raise our thoughts and purify our powers;
Periods appointed to renew our trust;

A gleam of glory after six days' showers!

A milky-way mark'd out through skies else drear,
By radiant suns that warm as well as shine;
A clew, which he who follows knows no fear,

Though briers and thorns around his pathway twine.

Foretastes of heaven on earth; pledges of joy
Surpassing fancy's flights and fiction's story ;
The preludes of a feast that cannot cloy,

And the bright out-courts of immortal glory!
Barton.

3015. SABBATH. Import of the HAIL to the day, which He, who made the heaven, Earth, and their armies, sanctified and blest, Perpetual memory of the Maker's rest! Hail to the day, when He, by whom was given New life to man, the tomb asunder riven,

Arose! That day His Church doth still confess, At once Creation's and Redemption's feast, Sign of a world call'd forth, a world forgiven. Welcome that day, the day of holy peace,

The Lord's own day! to man's Creator owed, And man's Redeemer; for the soul's increase In sanctity, and sweet repose bestow'd; Type of the rest when sin and care shall cease, The rest remaining for the loved of God !--Mant.

3016. SABBATH: its preciousness to the poor. HAIL, Holy Day! the blessing from above Brightens thy presence like a smile of love,

Smoothing, like oil upon a stormy sea,
The roughest waves of human destiny-
Cheering the good, and to the poor oppress'd
Bearing the promise of their heavenly rest.

Mrs Hele.

But, chiefly, man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day:
On other days, the man of toil is doom'd
To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground

Both seat and board-screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosom'd in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With cover'd face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air pure from the city's smoke,
As wandering slowly up the river's bank,
He meditates on Him whose powers he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
And in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around the roots: and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,
He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope,)
That heaven may be one sabbath without end.

Grahame

3017. SABBATH: its preciousness to the poor.

THE merry birds are singing,
And from the fragrant sod
The spirits of a thousand flowers
Go sweetly up to God:
While in His holy temple

We meet to praise and pray
With cheerful voice and grateful heart,
This summer Sabbath-day!

We thank Thee, Lord, for one day
To look Heaven in the face;
The poor have only Sunday;

The sweeter is the grace.
'Tis then they make the music

That sings their week away.
Oh, there's a sweetness infinite
In the poor man's Sabbath-day!
'Tis as a burst of sunshine,

A tender fall of rain,
That sets the barest life a-bloom;
Makes old hearts young again.
The dry and dusty roadside

With smiling flowers is gay;
'Tis open heaven one day in seven,
The poor man's Sabbath-day!

'Tis here the weary pilgrim

Doth reach his house of ease;
That blessed house, called 'Beautiful,'
And that soft chamber, 'Peace.'
The river of life runs through his dream,
And the leaves of heaven are at play;
He sees the golden city gleam,
This shining Sabbath-day!

Take heart, ye faint and fearful,
Your cross with courage bear;
So many a face now tearful

Shall shine in glory there;
Where all the sorrow is banish'd,

The tears are wiped away;
And all eternity shall be

An endless Sabbath-day!

Ah! there are empty places,

Since last we mingled here!

There will be missing faces

When we meet another year!
But, heart to heart, before we part,

Now all together pray

That we may meet in heaven, to spend
The eternal Sabbath-day!

3018. SABBATH. Observance of the

Now let us repose from our care and our sorrow,
Let all that is anxious and sad pass away;
The rough cares of life lay aside till to-morrow,
And let us be tranquil and happy to-day.

Let us say to the world, should it tempt us to wander,
As Abraham said to his men on the plain-
There's the mountain of prayer, I am going up
yonder,

And tarry you here till I seek you again.

When on and on, in ceaseless course,
The toiling bark must keep,
And not a trace of man appears

Amid the wilderness

Of waters-then it comes like dove
Direct from heaven to bless.-Mrs Hale.

3020. SABBATH. Rest of the

FRESH glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill!
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,

How motionless and still!

Six days of toil, poor child of Cain,
Thy strength the slave of Want may be;
The seventh thy limbs escape the chain-
A God hath made thee free!

Ah, tender was the Law that gave

This holy respite to the breast,
To breathe the gale, to watch the wave,
And know-the wheel may rest!
But where the waves the gentlest glide
What image charms, to lift thine eyes?
The spire reflected on the tide

Invites thee to the skies.

To teach the soul its nobler worth
This rest from mortal toil is given;
Go, snatch the brief reprieve from earth,
And pass-a guest to heaven.
Six days may Rank divide the poor,

O Dives, from thy banquet-hall;
The seventh the Father opes the door,
And holds His feast for all!-Bulwer Lytton.

3021. SABBATH. Stillness of the

WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn,

That scarcely wakes while all the fields are still;

To-day on that mount we would seek for Thy bless- A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,
ing;

O Spirit of Holiness, meet with us there;
Our hearts then will feel, thine influence possessing,
The sweetness of praise and the fervour of prayer.
Edmeston.

3019. SABBATH: on the sea.

OH! welcome to the wearied Earth

The Sabbath resting comes,
Gathering the sons of toil and care

Back to their peaceful homes;
And, like a portal to the skies,

Opens the House of God,

Where all who seek may come and learn

The way the Saviour trod.

But holier to the wanderer seems

The Sabbath on the deep,

A graver murmur echoes from the hill,
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn,

The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The sky a placid yellow lustre throws;
The gales that lately sigh'd along the grove

Have hush'd their drowsy wings in dead repose.

How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze:
The faintest sounds attract the ear,—the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.

Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving hill.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellow from the dale,
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods:
The dizzing mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Has ceased-all, all around is quietness.

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THE highest glory is not where, 'Mid crimson clouds, the fight is won; 'Tis to reclaim the erring son, Long used the sinful yoke to bear. Better to clothe with corn the wild

Than track the fire-path of a star; Less the proud sons of science are Than clown who saves a drowning child.

Through death the world is raised above
Its alien curse and kindred dust;
We on the cross read, 'God is just,'
But in the offering, 'God is love.'

The wheaten corn which falls and dies,
In autumn's plenty richly waves;
So, from the loathsome place of graves,
With Christ, our elder, we may rise.
From death comes life. The hand of God
This direst curse to good transforms;
So purest air is born of storms;
So bursts the harvest from the clod.

The highest benedictions hide
Where sacrifice is pure and true;
And our poor self-denials, too,

If done for Christ, in Him abide.—Punshon,

3025. SAFETY.

PLACE me on some desert shore
Foot of man ne'er wander'd o'er ;
Lock me in a lonely cell
Beneath some prison citadel;
Still, here or there, within I find
My quiet kingdom of the mind;
Nay, 'mid the tempest fierce and dark,
Float me in peril's frailest barque,
My quenchless soul could sit and think,
And smile at danger's dizziest brink ;
And wherefore? God, my God, is still
King of kings in good and ill;
And where he dwelleth-everywhere-
Safety supreme and peace are there;
And where He reigneth-all around—
Wisdom, and love, and power are found;
And, reconciled to Him and bliss,

'My mind to me a kingdom is.'-Tupper.

3026. SAILOR. The Christian

LAUNCH thy bark, mariner! Christian, Heaven speed

thee!

Let loose the rudderbands! good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily, tempests will come:
Steer thy course steadily! Christian, steer home!
Look to the weather-bow, breakers are round thee!
Let fall the plummet now, shallows may ground thee!
Reef in the fore-sail there! hold the helm fast!
So let the vessel wear and 'scape the blast.

What of the night, watchman? what of the night?
'Cloudy-all quiet-no land yet-all's right.'
Be wakeful, be vigilant, danger may be
At an hour when all seems securest to thee.
How gains the leak so fast? clear out the hold!
Hoist up the merchandise-heave out the gold!
There-let the ingots go! now the ship rights;
Hurrah! the harbour's near-lo, the red lights!
Slacken not sail yet at inlet or island,
Straight for the beacon steer-straight for the high-
land;

Crowd all thy canvas on, cut through the foam,
Christian! cast anchor now: Heaven is thy home!-
C. Southey.

3027. SAINT: a name of honour.
A Saint! Oh, would that I could claim
The privileged, the honour'd name,

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And confidently take my stand,
Though lowest, in the saintly band.

Would, though it were in scorn applied,
That term the test of truth could bide!
Like kingly salutation given

In mockery to the King of Heaven.

A saint! and what imports the name
Thus banded in derision's game?
'Holy and separate from sin;
To good, nay, even to God akin.'

How shall the name of saint be prized,
Though now neglected and despised,
And sinners to their doom be hurl'd,
When scorned saints shall 'judge the world.'

3028. SAINTS. Communion of

FROM saint to saint the world around

Celestial odours are diffused;

Marriott.

Sweet thoughts are born on hallow'd ground, Where holy men have mused.

And none can tell how many springs

Flow to sustain one soul serene;

But every hour some tribute brings
From sources quiet and unseen.

The loneliest pilgrim in the ways
Is never in his prayers alone;
But every one for thousands prays,
And thousands pray for every one.

We dwell with shadows round us here,
And nought is bright but heaven above:
When all our secret friends appear,

How many shall we know and love!

Yet, as we learn the mystery,

Around One holy fount we fall, And, in the light eternal, see

That God is all in all.-Gostick.

3029. SAINTS. Our

Tis not alone from legend and old story,

'Tis not alone from canvas, dark with time, That holy saints, crown'd with celestial glory, Smile down upon us, from their height sublime. Not only from church windows, colour'd brightly, Do their bless'd shadows fall across our way; Ah, not alone in niches gleaming whitely, With folded hands, do they stand night and day. Who is there in this world who has not, hidden Deep in his heart, a picture, clear or faint, Veil'd, sacred, to the outer world forbidden,

O'er which he bends and murmurs low, 'My saint.'

A face, perhaps, all written o'er with sorrow,
Whose faded eyes are dim with unshed tears;
And yet, they hopefully look toward the morrow,
And far beyond it, into brighter spheres.

A face whence all the sunshine of the morning
And brightness of the noon have pass'd away;
And yet, where clearly, surely, there is dawning
The wondrous radiance of that perfect day.

That perfect day - when, crown'd with heaven's brightness,

Without a pain, or care, or mortal need, With conqueror's palm, in robe of snowy whiteness, Our bless'd shall stand, as very saints indeed.

Yes, God be thank'd! though the pure saints of story,

And holy martyrs that the artist paints, Are veil'd in radiance and crown'd with glory, There still are halos for these unknown saints. A. R. M.

2030. SAINTS. Our

I SEE them with their heavenward eyes,

Men who in Christ abide ;

The long train ceases not to rise

Though time's unceasing tide,
And a grave across each pathway lies,
But the path swerves not aside.

Like a chorus which no discords mar,
Sober and clear and grand,
Like a scroll upreaching to a star,
Caught by an angel's hand,
Like a wind beginning from afar,

And covering all the land,

They sound, they pass; each man beholds The Master's risen face,

Each arm some near beloved enfolds,

Yet keeps its forward place;
The weak one leans, the strong upholds,
But all are in the race.

Up, through the darkness and the pain,
Up, through the joy and light,
Earth's myriad hands are raised in vain
To baffle or invite,

Life shows them nothing to detain,

Death, nothing to affright.

By all things fair their course is graced,
By all things bitter, heal'd;
Gathering like servants sent in haste

Who, being challenged, yield,
And through the garden or the waste,
'Guide to God's happy field.

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