JOHN KEBLE. From THE CHRISTIAN YEAR. MORNING. Hues of the rich unfolding morn, Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, O timely happy, timely wise, Hearts that with rising morn arise! Eyes that the beam celestial view, Which evermore makes all things new! New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove; Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life and power and thought. New mercies each returning day Hover around us while we pray; New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven. If on our daily course our mind Be set to hallow all we find. Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be We need not bid, for cloistered cell, Our neighbour and our work farewell; Nor strive to wind ourselves too high The trivial round, the common task, Lord, help us, this and every day, THE PURIFICATION. Blest are the pure in heart, Still to the lowly soul He doth himself impart, And for his temple and his throne From ST. MATTHEW. There are, in this loud stunning tide Who carry music in their heart, Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat. SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY. There is a book, who runs may read, The works of God above,-below, The dew of Heaven is like Thy grace; But where it lights, the favoured place Thou who hast given me eyes to see Give me a heart to find out Thee, From LYRA INNOCENTIUM. EARLY WARNINGS. The deeds we do, the words we say, We count them ever past, But they shall last: In the dread judgment, they, HENRY HART MILMAN. LORD, HAVE MERCY WHEN WE PRAY. Two top lines from Hymns for the Christian Church and Home, by the Rev. Dr. Martineau.] Lord, have mercy when we pray O then have mercy, Lord. SIR JOHN BOWRING. [1792-1872 Lead us with thy gentle sway, SIR JOHN BOWRING. LIFE'S PILGRIMAGE. We are pilgrims, and our goal Is that distant land whose bourn Is the haven of the soul, Where the mourners cease to mourn ; Every tear from every eye. Lead us thither! thou dost know All the way; but wanderers, we And stretch out our hands to thee; WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 1775-1864] MISCELLANEOUS. XI. My hopes retire; my wishes as before, XIV. From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass |