THESE are Thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty! Thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair! Thyself how wondrous then,
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these Thy lowliest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons-of-light,
Angels; for ye behold Him, and, with songs
And choral symphonies, day-without-night
Circle His throne, rejoicing;-ye in heaven ·
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol
Him first Him last Him midst and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn;
Sure pledge-of-day that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise-Him in thy sphere
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge Him thy greater; sound His praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st
And when high noon hast gain'd and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun now fly'st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies,
And ye five other wand'ring fires, that move
In mystic dance, not without song; resound
His praise, who out-of-darkness call'd-up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in-quaternion run
Perpetual circle - multiform, and mix,
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary, to our great Maker, still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise,
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or grey
Till the sun paints your fleecy skirts with gold;
In honour to the world's great Author, rise,
Whether to deck-with-clouds the uncolour'd sky
Or wet the thirsty earth with fallen showers,
Rising-or-falling still advance His praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow
Breathe soft or loud. And wave your tops ye pines,
With every plant; in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune His praise.
Join all ye living souls; ye birds
That singing up to-heaven's-gate ascend,
Bear, on your wings and in your notes, His praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth and stately tread or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley fountain or fresh shade
Made vocal by my song and taught His praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give-us only good; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil or conceal'd,
Disperse-it, as now light dispels the dark.
The Lofty Lords.
An Eastern Legend.
THERE's an isle far off, under India's skies,
Where the mariner oft at-eve descries,
When the heavens are calm and the winds asleep,
Dark ruins beneath the shining deep;
Of towers upbuilt, as the tale is told,
By Lords of that isle in days of old,
Who, aping the Babel-builders' skill,
Heaped stone on stone, aspiring still,
Till, lodged aloft on their piles of pride,
Earth sea and heaven these Lords defied.
But little they knew, when towering so,
What a mighty power was at work below,
For on-land-usurp'd-from-the-Giant-Sea
They had built their halls of dignity,
Nor dreamt, while high-in-air they slept,
Of the world of waters that round them swept,
And the working waves that day-by-day
Were mining their massive mounds away.
In vain did the wise, whose prescient ear
The coming crash in each breeze could hear,
Forewarn these Lords-of-the-lofty-towers
How vast were the deep's encroaching powers
How mighty the waves of that angry sea
Coming like crested chivalry;
It was all in vain-unmoved they stood,
Like Canute each to-the-swelling-flood
Saying "Thou comest not to this spot."
But the surging waters heard them not:
In-the-light-of-heaven one-instant shone
Both Lords and towers, and the next-were gone;
Dark over-them swept the mighty main,
And the Giant-Sea had his own again.
The Blessedness of Giving.
(From Churchman's Monthly Penny Magazine, June, 1856.)
O GIVE because thou lovèst Him
Who died thy soul to save;
Who wash'd-thee in His precious blood
And all thy blessings gave!
Give all the glory unto God,
And to-His-glory live!
A sacrifice-of-love to-him
Thy soul and body give.
Then turn thee to thy fellow-man,
His wretchedness behold:-
:-
Worn down by poverty and pain,
And misery untold!
Millions of Heathen crave thy help
In the true riches
While hundreds pine in want and woe
E'en at thy very door.
Oh, give not with a niggard hand,
Nor with a grudging heart;
That which-thou-freely-hast-receiv'd
With-bounteousness impart!
Thou shalt be rich in orphan's love,
The poor shall bless thy name!
Where wilt thou find reward more sweet?
More satisfying fame?
may not be the widow's mite,
It may but be a smile;
Yet it may ease some heavy heart,
Some sufferer's pain beguile :
prayer of faith, and thou
Shalt a rich donor be,
Blest and rewarded by the God
Who seeth secretly.
But, oh, give not with haughtiness,
Give not with hateful pride!
Thou wilt but mock the poor man's woe,
His misery deride :
Thy gifts may cheer him, but on thee
No love will he bestow;
Far dearer those who poor, like him,
Can love and kindness shew.
And, when a banquet thou dost make, Call not the rich and gay;
Call not alone thy neighbours who
Thy kindness can repay ;
But call the hungry and the halt
The maimed and the blind; They cannot pay thee,-thou in heav'n
Thy recompense shalt find!*
Deny thyself, that thou may'st give ;
So shalt thy simple fare
Be sweeter to thy happy soul
Than dainties rich and rare.
Oh may'st thou know how blest it is
For others' weal to live';
Thy pleasure in thy Saviour's smile,
Thy luxury to give!
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