a THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. ND is there care in heaven? And is there love Of men than beasts: but O the exceeding grace O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard! EDMUND SPenser. THE DYING SAVIOUR. SACRED Head, now wounded, With grief and shame weighed down ; Now scornfully surrounded With thorns, Thy only crown; O sacred Head, what glory, O noblest brow and dearest, In other days the world To thank Thee, dearest Friend, If I, a wretch, should leave Thee, In faith may I receive Thee, Be near when I am dying, O, show Thy cross to me! And for my succor flying, Come, Lord, to set me free. These eyes new faith receiving, From Jesus shall not move; For he who dies believing Dies safely-through Thy love. FOR LOVE'S SAKE. One of the most celebrated, and perhaps the finest, of all reli. gious edifices in the world, is the "Moslem Palace" called Taj Mahal. It was erected during the 17th century, by the Emperor Shah Jehan as a mausoleum for his favorite queen. The material is white marble, and the cost is said to have been over fifteen million dollars. The tombs of the Emperor and Queen are in the central hall. YOU have read of the Moslem palace- You have read of its marble splendors, Its domes and its towers that glisten You have listened as one has told you Of the flow of its fountains falling Of the friezes of frost-like beauty, Where lies in her sculptured coffin, (Whose chiselings mortal man Of the loves of the Shah Jehan. And they tell you these letters, gleaming Are words of the Moslem prophet, And still as you heard, you questioned To shelter a woman's dust?" Why rear it?-the Shah had promised His beautiful Nourmahal To do it because he loved her, He loved her-and that was all! So minaret, wall, and column, A grander than Hindoo shrine, That the pile in its finished glory The lapse of the silent Kedron, And cedars are round it there. And graved on its walls and pillars, And cut in its crystal stone, Are the words of our Prophet, sweeter Its Architect understands; And so, for the work's progression, Not one does the Master-Builder Why, even He takes the chippings, Oh, not to the dead-to the living- This fane to His lasting glory, This church to the Christ of God! Why labor and strive? We have promised (And dare we the vow recall?) To do it because we love Him, We love Him-and that is all! For over the Church's portal, Each pillar and arch above, The Master has set one signet, And graven one watchword-LOVE. MARGARET J. PRESTON. DIFFERENT MINDS. OME murmur when their sky is clear If one small speck of dark appear One ray of God's good mercy, gild In palaces are hearts that ask, And all good things denied, RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. A DREAM OF THE UNIVERSE. NTO the great vestibule of heaven, God called up a man from dreams, saying, "Come thou hither, and see the glory of my house." And, to the servants who stood around His throne, He said. "Take him, and undress him from his robes of flesh; cleanse his vision, and put a new breath into his nostrils; only touch not with any change his human heart -the heart that weeps and trembles." It was done; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, the man stood ready for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at once they wheeled away into endless space. Sometimes, with solemn flight of angel wings, they fled through Saharas of darkness-through wildernesses of death, that divided the world of life; sometimes they swept over frontiers that were quickening under the prophetic motions from God. Then, from a distance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a time through a sleepy film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them; they by unutterable pace to the light. In a moment, the rushing of planets was upon them; in a moment, the blazing of suns was around them. Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were not revealed. On the right hand and on the left. towered mighty constellations, that by self-repetition and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways-horizontal, upright-rested, rose-at altitudes by spans that seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory the gates. Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below; above was below-below was above, to the man stripped of gravitating body; depth was swallowed up in height insurmountable; height was swallowed up in depth unfathomable. Suddenly, as thus they rode from infinite to infinite; suddenly, as thus they tilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose that systems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other heights and other depths, were coming-were nearing -were at hand. Then the man sighed, and stopped, and shuddered, and wept. His overladen heart uttered itself in tears; and he said, “Angel, I will go no farther; for the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory of God. Let me lie down in the grave, and hide me from the persecutions of the Infinite; for end, I see, there is none." And from all the listening stars that shone around, issued a choral cry, "The man speaks truly; end there "End is there is none that ever yet we heard of." none?" the angel solemnly demanded: "Is there indeed no end, and is this the sorrow that kills you?" But no voice answered that he might answer himself. Then the angel threw up his glorious hands toward the heaven of heavens, saying, "End is there none to the universe of God! Lo, also there is no beginning!” JEAN PAUL RICHTER. THE HOUR OF DEATH. The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; Youth and the opening rose And smile at thee-but thou art not of those Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh death! We know when moons shall wane, Is it when spring's first gale Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where friend meets friend, Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh death! FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS. E was of that stubborn crew Of arrant saints, whom all men grant And prove their doctrine orthodox SAMUEL BUTLER CREATIVE POWER. 'HE spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim; The unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display, And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening carth Repeats the story of her birth; While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though no real voice or sound Amid their radiant orbs be found? In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, Forever singing, as they shine, "The Hand that made us is divine!" JOSEPH ADDISON. NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. ALKING of sects till late one eve, But the aged father did not mind; "Im bound for heaven; and when I'm there, I saw him again on the other side, Then down to the river a Quaker strayed; Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight, But a strong wind carried away his hat; A moment he silently sighed over that; And then, as he gazed to the further shore, Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms And hymns as many, a very wise thing, That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness; But he cried, "Dear me! what shall I do? And there on the river far and wide, Then, gravely walking, two saints by name Down to the stream together came; But, as they stopped at the river's brink, I saw one saint from the other shrink. "Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you, friend, How you attained to life's great end?" "Thus, with a few drops on my brow." "But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now, "And I really think it will hardly do, As I'm close communion,' to cross with you; Then straightway plunging with all his might, And now, when the river was rolling on, Of women there seemed an innumerable throng, And concerning the road, they could never agree, And a sound of murmuring, long and loud, But the "brethren" only seemed to speak : I watched them long in my curious dream, No forms or crosses or books had they; HE minister said last night, says he, If your life ain't nothin' to other folks I tell you our minister's prime, he is, When I heard him givin' it right and left, Of course, there could be no mistake, And the minister he went on to say, I don't think much of a man that gives I guess that dose was bitter For a man like Jones to swaller; But I noticed he didn't open his mouth, Hurrah! says I, for the minister Of course, I said it quiet- The minister hit 'em every time; And when he spoke of fashion, And a-comin' to church to see the styles, And a-nudgin' my wife, and, says I, "That's you,” And I guess it sot her thinkin'. Says I to myself, that sermon's pat; But man is a queer creation; And I'm much afraid that most o' the folks Now, if he had said a word about My personal mode o' sinnin', Just then the minister says, says he, "And now I've come to the fellers Go home," says he, "and find your faults, |