Welcome, blest SAVIOUR! Though the flesh may pine,
The yearning soul is then from earth most free
When pain and night and silence all combine
To turn the tide of holy thought to Thee.
Robed in Thy sinless flesh-homeless-in agony.

For all the pangs that these frail members tame,
The evil thought, or guilty word or deed

Have griev'd Thy Spirit, and put Thee to shame.
E'en when I've learned most patiently to bleed,
I but receive in part transgression's righteous meed.

Blest, if my body may be thus subdued

To bear the light yoke of Thy holy Word:
Blest, if I learn to check, as they intrude,

Thoughts that to madness once bad passions stirred,
And made my breast the home of many an unclean bird.

But in Thy woes, no thought had called for pain
To sear its cankered root; nor through the door
Of Thy pure lips had passed one sentence vain.
Thou hadst no sin: where was Thy guilty score?
Alas! I know full well, and must myself abhor.

E'en as the infant learns its pain to bear,
When its young frame by sickness is oppress'd;
Soothed by its mother's kiss and pitying care,
It lays its hot cheek on her gentle breast,
And spreads its little arms, and smiles, and falls to rest.

So, though no child, but like the thief I hang,
Beside Thy cross; yet mercy points to Thee,
(While sin of vengeance speaks by throb and pang)
And bids me not from suffering strive to flee.
Yet speak the words of peace, O holy LORD, to me.

Wonder of wonders! From Thy wounded side
A stream is flowing, and by seraphs caught
For souls so fast in bonds of anguish tied,
That they can raise no voice, but only thought
To Thee; and lo, the cup to their parched lip is brought.

Far sweeter than to fevered child the tide

From Nature's fount, the streams Thy veins distil
From pierced hands and feet, and opened side.
Calmed to sweet rest, no force of pain can kill

Their souls, who 'neath the Cross, have those blest streams at will.

Like a young child unto Thy arms I flee,

A chidden, smitten child: and I must steep
My bed with tears, not that Thou woundest me,
But that I ventured from my home to creep,

And so deserved Thy rod: therefore I can but weep.

LORD, I complain not. Yet since too much pain Robs the poor feeble soul of thought and prayer, Give me such respite, that my soul may gain Strength for her last dark journey to prepare ; And when Death's angel comes, O be Thou also there.

For, LORD, Thou knowest that I am not strong: My fainting flesh will plead perforce for ease. FATHER of mercies! not this whole night long Smite me, lest my impatience Thee displease; And so my soul be left alone for sin to seize.

Thou know'st what idly-busy fancies throng
Into the sick man's light unsteady brain;
How quick the Foe to do his weakness wrong,
And tempt at every point; and not in vain,

Except Thy guardian Power avert the threatened bane.

Then send my weariness some short repose,

And free my dreams from that which walks by night;
And if it please Thy mercy to disclose

Aught of the unseen world to my dim sight,
Grant me in humble faith to read the vision right.

Once more I offer up to Thee, my LORD,
My life, and senses, which are Thy dear gift;
Reason, and spirit by Thy love restored,
And will, and memory, and conscience swift
To act th' avenger's part, and all my actions sift.

Thy soul, Thy flesh, the Water and the Blood,
Thy stripes, Thy sweat, Thy wounds shall be my stay,
To build me, to uphold in Marah's flood,

To wash me clean, my ransom's price to pay,
To heal, and to refresh, and hide me safe for aye.

For Thy paternal love, O Sire of Heaven,
And for adoption, Thee, O Only Son,
Thee, HOLY GHOST, for grace and spirit given,
Thee, Mighty God, for our salvation won,
Unceasingly I'll praise, Eternal Three in One.

E. W.

DUTIES AND PLEASURES OF WINTER.

If there is one being in the world treated with unceasing injury, and severely calumniated, it is that poor genius with a white beard who personifies winter. Painters represent him with a long mantle, a lean and hard countenance, and skinny hands stretched out towards a fire. Poets call him gloomy, rigorous Winter; and if they wish to describe a sorrowing soul, they say that it is blighted and sad like winter. It is indeed a painful and terrible season for the wretched poor of large towns, who have neither fire nor clothing,who stretch out their hands at the corners of the streets to the indifferent passer-by; for the infirm old men and labourers without work; for the poor families in the country, who try to pick up out of the snow the dead branches of trees. But do not let us forget that the more this season of the year gives rise to suffering, the more it awakens generous sympathy, and causes touching actions of charity.

It begins with the festival of S. Martin, who shared his cloak with the indigent; and this festival is like a pious indication of the duties of charity, imposed by this painful period of the year. These duties are not fulfilled to their full extent. Alas! no.

It

must be acknowledged we too often forget misery; we too often pass by on the other side without listening to its groans; and we turn away our head from the sight of sinking poverty, to avoid being disturbed in our contented selfishness by a troublesome remembrance, or a feeling of remorse. But how many provident thoughts give also a moral character to these winter months! How many brilliant meetings there are, in which a compassionate hope of doing good is hidden under an appearance of frivolous pleasure! Charity is a virtue so sweet to those even who practise it, that it softens the most insensible heart, and sobers the most giddy mind. In the country, especially, charity acts most simply and intimately. We come into immediate contact with the poor man; we have known him for a long while; we know by what inevitable catastrophe, by what long tissue of misfortunes, he has fallen under the pressure of misery. He was a child of the village, with whom the children of the rich have grown up; who has shared with them the labours of the fields, and the games of the festivals, and whose smiling face they liked to see. In mountainous countries, on Sundays after Divine Service, the poor man, with his wallet on his back, goes from door to door, all through the village. The mistress of the house smilingly brings him her humble contribution. If he is cold, he is asked to sit down at the hearth; he is given a large plate of hot soup, and whilst busying herself at her work, the good and charitable woman questions, consoles, and encourages him. On the days of happy events, at a christening, at a wedding, or when a son of the family returns after the expiration of his time of service, the poor man arrives like an expected guest; he associates himself in the joy of the house, and on that day he is given the comforting glass of wine, the slice of smoked ham, and the newly baked cake. After he has made a sumptuous meal, he rises with fresh vigour, and hastens to perform all kinds of services. He helps the servant to lift the boiler on the fire, and the stable-boy to pour water into the trough. At night he goes to sleep on a bundle of hay in the barn, and the next morning, when his wallet has been filled, he departs, blessing the worthy people who in their happiness have so well given the poor his share,the share of God.

In the northern regions, where the winters are longer and more severe, the rights of poverty are still more readily acknowledged. In Norway, even in Iceland, in every isolated house we find the chamber of the poor. The poor man enters it when he likes; he makes it his abode as long as he chooses, and renders himself acceptable by peculiar qualities, of which no one knows the secret better than himself. He knows, like the poor of Brittany, the fairy legends and old traditions of the country, and relates them pleasantly by the fireside. He is like the poor in Scotland, gifted with a kind of second sight; he tells the young girl who will be

her betrothed; he teaches the young man the den of the bear and the hole of the fox; he predicts for the father of the family whether the summer will be wet or dry,-to the fisherman, that the shoals of fish will go towards such a coast,-and to the prudent housewife, that there will be a good harvest of barley or of flax. He is the wandering prophet of the country; he reads the stars; he foresees tempests; and no one can so well guide the footsteps of the wandering traveller, help him to leap over a torrent, and clear his path over a snowy mountain. He is also the faithful messenger between all these rural habitations dispersed over an immense space, and separated from each other by a distance of several leagues. Wherever he stops he sees some commission to execute. Here, it is a message of friendship of which he is the bearer; there, it is an important paper to be given, or a book to be exchanged for the long winter evenings; for no post passes by these dwellings, so far from the highroad, so he himself performs the office of postman and carrier.

In Sweden, the pity which the severe season inspires is extended even to the poor animals deprived of shelter and food. On certain days in the winter, the Swedish peasant places some ears of barley on the roof of his house, in order that the little birds, who can find nothing now to pick up on the ground covered with snow, may alight and rest on this tithe of the harvest.

A German writer, Krummacher, has given, in his collection of parables, a pleasing picture of that harmony between the sympathies of mankind and the suffering beings around him.

"During the severity of winter," says he, "a red breast came and pecked at the window of a good peasant, as if he would be very glad to get in. The peasant opened the window, and received with friendliness into his dwelling the confiding little creature. Then the redbreast began to pick up the grains and crumbs which fell from the table, and the children were very fond of him.

"But when the spring returned, and the trees were covered with leaves, the peasant opened his window, and his little guest flew to the neighbouring wood, built his nest, and sung his joyful song. At the return of winter the redbreast came back to the peasant's house, bringing with him his little companion.

"The peasant and his children were delighted to see the confidence with which the two birds looked at them, and the children made this remark,—'The birds look at us as if they had something they wanted to say to us.'

"Yes,' answered the father; and if they could speak they would say to you, Confidence inspires confidence, and love begets love.'"

In some countries of Europe,-in Russia, for instance, winter is the period of the year when most commercial business is transacted. The masses of snow level the roughness of the roads, and they can convey easily, from one end of the empire to another, the com

modities which, in the summer, can only be transported with great difficulty over rocky or marshy roads.

In Sweden, in Denmark, in Norway, a cold winter renders all communication swift and easy. Instead of waiting for a favourable wind, or taking the oars to cross a lake, they harness a horse to a light sledge, and go in a few minutes from one shore to the other. The letter-carriers who cross the passage from Abo to Grisselhamn, and those who cross the Belt, are glad to see a thick coating of ice collecting on the water; for then they accomplish rapidly a journey which in a thaw is very long, and often dangerous. For want of a sledge, the Norwegian takes his skates, and goes with the rapidity of lightning to pay a visit to a friend. The peasants of Holland carry in this manner their milk and poultry to market; and the Laplander, fastening his feet under the leather of the long snowshoes, runs quicker than his reindeer across ravines and valleys.

In Iceland, by the pale light of a peat fire, the fisherman repeats to his attentive children the chronicles of the old kings of Norway, and the mythological fables of ancient Scandinavia. In Germany, the poorest citizen enlivens the nocturnal hours of the barren season with his popular tales, his songs, and his piano. In Holland, winter is the season of the popular festivals, of the animated and noisy revels, so often described, so forcibly represented, by the writers and painters of this country. Then rivers and canals are all frozen over, as in the time when Pichegru took the Dutch ships with squadrons of cavalry. On every canal troops of skaters slide, with that joyous merriment, to which Klopstock has dedicated one of his odes. On each bank may be seen a crowd of spectators, women, children, old men; some who cannot yet venture to join in these lively but dangerous games,-others who had formerly participated in them with ardour, and who vainly regretted that they dared not hazard their feeble limbs. Stalls in the open air emitted an inviting smell of food, and tempted all the skilful actors in these scenes. The fish of Sehevening is browned over the brazier, the fritters crackle in the boiling oil, the vapour of gin sparkles proudly by the side of the humble jug of beer, and the pipes of the smokers surround all this magical picture with a floating cloud, which warms the atmosphere of the moveable stall, and forms a protecting curtain around its disjointed planks.

In the north, some years ago, winter achieved what an army of engineers would not have attempted. It made, of the arm of the sea which separates Denmark from Sweden, a firm and solid bridge of ice, which connected the two nations. Moveable booths and shops were constructed upon it, and the inhabitants of the opposite shores of the Sound, the students of Lund and Copenhagen, went there to celebrate together the Scandinavian union, and to sing their popular songs on that crystal flooring, stretched over the head of old Neptune.

Sad, however, very sad and terrible is winter, when through the