Thanks for a Summer's Day.

But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us,
Whom thou hast left behind,
May we, untainted by the world,

As sure a welcome find;

May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Thanks for a Summer's Day.

A. HUME.-Sixteenth Century.

THE

HE time so tranquil is, and dear,
That nowhere shall ye find,

Save on a high and barren hill,

The air of passing wind.

All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear,

Than they were painted on a wall,
No more they move or stir.

The ample heaven of fabric sure,
In clearness doth surpass
The crystal and the silver, pure
As clearest polish'd glass.

Bedecked is the sapphire arch
With streaks of scarlet hue;
And preciously from end to end
Damasked white and blue.

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Calm is the deep and purple sea,
Yea, smoother than the sand;
The waves, that weltering wont to be,
Are stable like the land.

The ships becalm'd upon the seas,
Hang up their sails to dry;
The herds, beneath their leafy trees,
Amidst the flowers they lie.

The little busy humming, bees,
That never think to drone,
On flowers and flourishes of trees
Collect their liquor brown.

The dove with whistling wings so blue,
The winds can fast collect,

Her purple pens turn many a hue
Against the sun direct.

Great is the calm, for everywhere
The wind is setting down,

The smoke goes upright in the air,

From every tower and town.

What pleasure then to walk and see,

Along a river clear,

The perfect form of every tree

Within the deep appear.

The bells and circles on the waves,

From leaping of the trout,

The salmon from their holes and caves

Come gliding in and out.

Oh, sure it were a seemly thing,
While all is still and calm,

The praise of God to pray, and sing,

With trumpet and with shawm.

The Hope beyond the Grave.

All labourers draw home at even,

And can to other say,

"Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,
Who sent this summer's day."

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Come not, D Lord.

T. MOORE.-Air, Haydn.

OME not, O Lord, in the dread robe of splendour,

CON

Thou wor'st on the Mount, in the day of Thine ire; Come, veil'd in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender, Which mercy flings over Thy features of fire!

Lord, Thou rememb'rest the night when Thy nation *
Stood fronting her foe by the red rolling stream;
O'er Egypt Thy pillar shed dark desolation,
While Israel bask'd all the night in its beam.

So when the dread clouds of anger unfold Thee,
From us, in Thy mercy, the dark side remove;
While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee,
Oh, turn upon us the mild light of Thy love!

The Hope beyond the Grave.

J. E. CARPENTER.—Music by Stephen Glover.

'HERE'S a hope-'tis not for splendour,

TH

For splendour cannot give,

With all that it can render,

The hope for which we live ;

* Exodus xiv. 20.

Worth all the fame we sigh for,
All the laurels of the brave,
Is that which we should die for,
The hope beyond the grave!

There's a hope, though few have sought it,
In this world of thorns and flowers,
Though a blessed Saviour bought it
With His own dear life for ours;
'Tis the hope of bliss undying,
That, for us, He died to crave,
Oh! may ours, when life is flying,
Be the hope beyond the grave!

Mariner's Hymn.

CAROLINE SOUTHEY.

LAUNCH thy bark, mariner!

Christian, Heaven speed thee!

Let loose the rudder bands!

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 pluminet now,
Shallows may ground thee!
Reef in the foresail there!
Hold the helm fast!
So-let the vessel wear!

There-sweep the blast.

Hope in Sorrow.

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 thy 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!

E

Hope in Sorrow.

ANNA BLACKWELL.

YES that have spent their weeping,

That have lost the power of tears;

Hearts that are coldly keeping

The memories of years;

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