Nor that deep sorrow my Redeemer tasted When on his soul the guilt of man was pressed.

Tender and sensitive, he braved the storm,

That we might fly a well-deserved fate, Poured out his soul in supplication warm, Looked with his eyes of love on eyes of hate.

Let all this goodness by my mind be seen,
Let all this mercy on my heart be sealed;
Lord, if thou wilt, thy power can make me clean!
O speak the word, thy servant shall be
healed!

A MEDITATION.

CHARLES J. FOX.*

"O FOR Some special Providence!
O for some miracle!”

Thus cry our ingrate hearts, nor feel,
Father! thou lov'st us well;

Thou giv'st the seasons in their course,
The rain and sweet sunshine;

And air, and food, and light, and life,
Are constant gifts of thine.

* Of Nashua, N. H. These verses were written a few days before his death.

A MEDITATION.

When health is bounding in each vein,
And vigor nerves each limb,
On the praise-altar of our hearts
How soon the fire grows dim!
But when come sickness and distress,
And human aid is vain,

At once we light the incense-cup,
And kneel to God again.

When all the friends we love the most

Return our hearts' caress,

And life is full of joy and hope, —

Then we forget to bless:

But if some loved one pines, and Death
Seems hovering in the air,

O, how we wrestle for his life,
With fasting and with prayer!

When fortune wears a smiling face,
And all is sunny-hued,

When all around we see no cloud,
How weak our gratitude!

But if misfortune's storm beats fierce

On our devoted breasts,

We strive until by penitence

God's rainbow on us rests.

"T is ever thus;- God's daily gifts Wake but a feeble lay;

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We feel not, know not, how to prize,
Till they have passed away.

Then, then, too late, we see Heaven's glow

Upon their upward track,

And find that angels have been here,
And try to hold them back.

Lord! if thou wert not perfect love,
How could we be forgiven?
Scarce greater sin was his who fell,
The Morning Star, from heaven;
Keep us from such ingratitude,
While pilgrims here we roam,
Till thou shalt send thine angel down
To guide our spirits home!

HYMN IN SICKNESS.

H. WARE, JR.

FATHER, thy gentle chastisement
Falls kindly on my burdened soul;
I see its merciful intent,

To warn me back to thy control;
And pray, that, while I kiss the rod,
I may find perfect peace with God.

THE PILGRIM AT HEAVEN'S GATE.

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The errors of my heart I know;

I feel my deep infirmities;
For often virtuous feelings glow,

And holy purposes arise,

But, like the morning clouds, decay,
As empty, though as fair, as they.

Forgive the weakness I deplore;
And let thy peace abound in me,
That I
may trust my heart no more,
But wholly cast myself on thee.
O let my Father's strength be mine,
And my devoted life be thine!

THE PILGRIM AT HEAVEN'S GATE.

C. G. FENNER.

Casta placent Superis

Pura cum veste venite.

England's Helicon. 1600.

My Robe of Life is travel-worn,
And dusty with the dusty way;
It beareth marks of many a storm,
It beareth marks of many a fray,-
The morning shower, the damp night-dews,
Have left their dark, discoloring hues.

My Robe of Life is scorched and burnt
By madly rushing through the fires,
Where sternest teachings I have learnt

From passionate and fell desires;
Yet not without the loss of chaste
White innocence, no more replaced,

My Robe of Life is blood-besprent,

For though I never raised the knife To smite my brother's breast, I've sent A sharper steel through his soul's life, And made his heart to bleed by deep And angry words that murdered sleep.

My Robe of Life is tear-bedewed, -
Tears wrung from mine and others' eyes,
That I so oft have shunned the good,
That ever round us, God-sent, lies,
And tears by deeper anguish forced
From consciousness of virtue lost.

My Robe of Life is sin-bespotted,

And much bewrayed by anxious care, And here and there grown thin and rotted Away by too much wear and tear,And torn by thorny thickets, when Through them I sought the road again.

My Robe of Life at first was fair

And spotless as the driven snow,