In darkness and in weariness

The traveller on his way must press,
No gleam to watch on tree or tower,
Whiling away the lonesome hour.

Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near:
Oh! may no earth-born cloud arise
To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes.

When round Thy wondrous works below My searching rapturous glance I throw, Tracing out Wisdom, Power, and Love, In earth or sky, in stream or grove;—

Or by the light Thy words disclose
Watch Time's full river as it flows,
Scanning Thy gracious Providence,
Where not too deep for mortal sense:-

When with dear friends sweet talk I hold,
And all the flowers of life unfold;

Let not my heart within me burn,
Except in all I Thee discern.

When the soft dews of kindly sleep
My wearied eyelids gently steep,
Be my last thought, how sweet to rest
For ever on my Saviour's breast.

Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live:
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.

Thou Framer of the light and dark,

Steer through the tempest Thine own ark:

Amid the howling wintry sea

We are in port if we have Thee.

The Rulers of this Christian land,

"Twixt Thee and us ordained to stand,Guide thou their course, O Lord, aright, Let all do all as in Thy sight.

Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned law;

Round about a throne, where, sitting (Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well-befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace-door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,

And sparkling evermore,

A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty

Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate;
(Ah! let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid, ghastly river,
Through the pale door,

A hideous throng rush out for ever,
And laugh-but smile no more.

STAND LIKE AN ANVIL.

"STAND, like an anvil," when the stroke
Of stalwart men falls fierce and fast:
Storms but more deeply root the oak,
Whose brawny arms embrace the blast.

"Stand, like an anvil," when the sparks
Fly, far and wide a fiery shower;

BISHOP DOANE.

That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad sun,
And you may look, with naked eye, upon

The ardors of his car;

The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks embolden,
Are making the green leaves golden.

What a brave splendor

Is in the October air! How rich, and clear,
And bracing, and all-joyous! we must render
Love to the spring-time, with its sproutings tender,
As to a child quite dear;

But autumn is a thing of perfect glory,
A manhood not yet hoary.

I love the woods,

In this good season of the liberal year;
I love to seek their leafy solitudes,
And give myself to melancholy moods,
With no intruder near,

And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder,
In every natural wonder.

But not alone,

As Shakspeare's melancholy courtier loved Ardennes,
Love I the browning forest; and I own

I would not oft have mused, as he, but flown
To hunt with Amiens-

And little thought, as up the bold deer bounded,
Of the sad creature wounded.

What passionate

And keen delight is in the proud swift chase!
Go out what time the lark at heaven's red gate
Soars joyously singing-quite infuriate

With the high pride of his place;

What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning
In its first bright adorning.

Hark! the quick horn

As sweet to hear as any clarion

Piercing with silver call the ear of morn;
And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and Topthorne
And Greysteil and the Don-

Each one of them his fiery mood displaying
With pawing and with neighing.

Urge your swift horse,

After the crying hounds in this fresh hour,

Vanquish high hills-stem perilous streams perforce,
On the free plain give free wings to your course,
And you will know the power

Of the brave chase-and how of griefs the sorest
A cure is in the forest.

Or stalk the deer;

The same red lip of dawn has kissed the hills,
The gladdest sounds are crowding on your ear,
There is a life in all the atmosphere:-

Your very nature fills

With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring
You climb with limbs untiring.

A strong joy fills

(A joy beyond the tongue's expressive power) My heart in autumn weather-fills and thrills! And I would rather stalk the breezy hills,

Descending to my bower