....

wants, and passions; its vivid and natural expressions, to monastic Christianity what the Hebrew psalms are to our common religion, to our common Christianity; its contagious piety;-all conspired to its universal dissemination. Its manner, its short quivering sentences, which went at once to the heart, and laid hold of and clung tenaciously to the memory with the compression and completeness of proverbs; its axioms, each of which suggested endless thought; its imagery, scriptural and simple, were alike original, unique. No book has been so often reprinted, no book has been so often translated, or into so many languages, as The Imitation of Christ.'" Who does not bless the memory of its author; who does not enjoy the sentences of the man who wrote as the Saviour was speaking to his heart? who does not love the name of Thomas à Kempis? He who instructed the world on the Imitation of Christ,' could sing too of the heaven where he hoped to see his beloved Master. He was a hymnist, and the joys above formed his chosen theme. Let those who would, like him, find Christ after waiting for them in their cell, be, like him, ever ready for devotion, and breathing more and more deeply his heavenly spirit from day to day, they will find a daily joy in singing with him—

High the angel choirs are raising
Heart and voice in harmony;
The Creator King still praising,
Whom in beauty there they see.

Sweetest strains, from soft harps stealing;

Trumpets, notes of triumph pealing;
Radiant wings and white stoles gleaming,
Up the steps of glory streaming;
When the heavenly bells are ringing,

Holy, holy, holy, singing
To the mighty Trinity!

Holy, holy, holy! crying;

For all earthly care and sighing
In that city cease to be!

Every voice is there harmonious,
Praising God in hymns symphonious;
Love each heart with light enfolding,
As they stand in peace beholding
There the Triune Deity!
Whom adore the seraphim,
Aye with love eternal burning;

Venerate the cherubim.

To their want of honour turning;
Whilst angelic thrones adoring
Gaze upon his majesty.

Oh, how beautiful that region,
And how fair that heavenly region,
Where thus men and angels blend;
Glorious will that city be,
Full of deep tranquillity,

Light and peace from end to end!
All the happy dwellers there
Shine in robes of purity,

Keep the law of charity,
Bound in fervent unity;

Labour finds them not, nor care.

Ignorance can ne'er perplex,

Nothing tempt them, nothing vex; Joy and health their fadeless blessing,

Always all things good possessing.

Chapter VIII.

SONGS IN HIGH PLACES.

“Praise Him in the heights. Kings of the earth, and all people, princes, and all judges of the earth, let them praise the name of the Lord."

HE great dramatist gives us no mere fancy
sketch when he makes an inheritor of royalty
say
of himself:-

The government I cast upon my brother,

And to my state grew stranger, being transported
And rapt in secret studies.

I pray thee mark me.

I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind
With that which, but by being so retired,

O'er prized all popular rate, in my false brother
Awaked an evil nature.

Such princes have lived, and studied, and prayed, and suffered, to the edification of a few, and to the sorrow of many. Hugh Capet, the father of the third line of French kings, showed himself quite equal to his position, and held the reins so as to keep his rude. and kicking subjects within the traces. He knew how to preserve quietness within his own border, and how

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to make a sufficiently awful impression outside. He was a ruler at home and a terror abroad; and in those days both were desirable virtues in men of his calling. He prospered, and finished his royal career in 996. But like does not always beget like. His son Robert came to the throne, bringing to it all his father's softer virtues, without those sterner qualities for government which are necessary to keep the balance of state. He wanted to be good, and was good. But he was too willing to cast the affairs of government upon some brother, and false brothers are not lacking. If not to be found in France, Italy could furnish one. Gregory the Fifth could do the politics for him, and the fighting too, and manage at the same time to lord it over King Robert's conscience. The king was not fit for kingship; he was more disposed to the cloisters. Anybody might rule for him. He might have had rule in Italy; yes, and the imperial crown might have been on his brow. But no, not he: "Let me alone," he seemed to say, "my joy is in secret; give me my psalter, my service-book, my psalm, my hymn, and I am happy." And so he was. He took his choice. The outside world might wag its way as it pleased; he would be a royal monk, and his palace should be his cell. And so he lived, and prayed, and chanted, and sung; and whether France or the world were ever the better for his rule or not, Christendom is the better for one hymn at least, which he left as the fruit of his devotion, and in which his reverent, tender, and peaceful spirit is graciously embalmed. As a king, his memory might have melted into oblivion; but as a hymnist his name will be dear to every following generation of those who breathe the feeling and sustain the music of his Veni Sancte Spiritus.

Holy Spirit come, we pray,

Come from heaven and shed the ray
Of thy light divine.

Come, thou Father of the poor,

Giver from a boundless store,

Light of hearts, O shine!

Matchless comforter in woe,

Sweetest guest the soul can know,
Living waters blest.

When we weep our solace sweet,
Coolest shade in summer heat,
In our labour rest.

Holy and most blessed light,
Make our inmost spirits bright,
With thy radiance mild;

For without thy sacred powers,
Nothing can we own of ours,
Nothing undefiled.

What is arid, fresh bedew,

What is sordid, cleanse anew,

Balm on the wounded pour.

What is rigid gently bend,

On what is cold thy fervour send;
What has stray'd, restore.

To Thine own in every place
Give the sacred seven-fold grace,
Give thy faithful this.

Give to virtue its reward,

Safe and peaceful end afford,
Give eternal bliss.

By bequeathing this hymn to us King Robert has left the world better than he found it. Nevertheless, it is a mercy for the world that Providence makes