entirely because he never prostituted his genius to the claims of vice. It cannot be said of him, as it is alleged of a more popular Scotch songster, that his unpublished songs have left a moral taint upon the social life of the neighbourhood in which they were circulated and sung. But let me sing to you his Sunday song, and then I must say good-bye. Try to sing with me

Dear is the hallowed morn to me,
When village bells awake the day;
And, by their sacred minstrelsy,
Call me from earthly cares away.

And dear to me the winged hour,
Spent in thy holy courts, O Lord!
To feel devotion's soothing power,
And catch the manna of thy Word.

And dear to me the loud Amen,

Which echoes through the blest abode;
Which swells and sinks, and swells again,
Dies on the walls, but lives to God.

Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in its six-days' chain,
This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.

Then dear to me the Sabbath morn,

The village bells, the shepherd's voice! These oft have found my heart forlorn, And always bid that heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike the lyre,
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms;
Ours be the prophet's car of fire,
Which bears us to a Father's arms.

18

Chapter XV.

HYMNS BY THE WAY

Yea, they shall sing in the ways of the Lord."

OW often has some sweet singer cheered his own way through the changes of life's journey

with snatches of song! Some pretty peep, some quiet nook, or happy turn, or unfolding prospect, or storied way-mark or remarkable adventure, or impressive event, has touched his soul, and awakened a tuneful tribute or suggested an immortal hymn. And in how many cases such hymns have helped to beguile the journey of other travellers, or furnished the means of lightening the steps of pilgrims of other days on their daily march. No hymnist was ever more open to wayside inspiration than Charles Wesley. His eye was always open to beauty and goodness. His ear was ever delicately alive to kindred harmonies, and his heart was never out of tune, never indisposed to entertain the tuneful thought that touched it. Hymns came welling up from his soul amidst the changes and activities of his evangelizing course, and the habit of wayside composition became so fixed, that in his last days, when he had gone beyond his "three score

years and ten," and growing infirmity obliged him to perform his street journeys in London on a little pony, he always kept a supply of small cards in his pocket, and as he jogged along, he might be seen now and then jotting down a stanza; and then on arriving at City Road House, he was out of the saddle, and might be heard hurriedly calling for pen and ink that he might fix the results of his street inspirations. To him the saddle was the seat of ease and quiet, and had peculiar charms, as a place of poetic study. "Near Ripley," says he, with a spice of that sportive humour which is so often showing itself in his and in his brother's journals, "my horse threw and fell upon me. My companion thought I had broken my neck; but my leg only was bruised, my hand sprained, and my head stunned, which spoiled my making hymns till the next day." His journals afford many instructive illustrations of the manner in which his hymns were brought out of real life and passing circumstances. He goes to the Newcastle colliers with his message of salvation, and the fires amidst which he found them labouring awakened thoughts about divine flames, and brought from his kindling soul that stirring hymn—

See how great a flame aspires,
Kindled by a spark of grace!
Jesu's love the nations fires,

Sets the kingdoms on a blaze;
To bring fire on earth He came;
Kindled in some hearts it is;

Oh that all might catch the flame,
All partake the glorious bliss!

Touched, too, at the sight of needy and eager multitudes crowding around him to hear his pro

clamation of the Sinner's Friend, he utters his feelings

in that outburst of beautiful

song

Who are these that come from far,

Swifter than a flying cloud?
Thick as flocking doves they are,
Eager in pursuit of God:
Trembling as the storm draws nigh,
Hastening to the place of rest,
See them to the windows fly,
To the ark of Jesu's breast!

Who are these, but sinners poor,
Conscious of their lost estate;
Sin-sick souls who for their cure
On the good Physician wait;
Fallen, who bewail their fall,
Proffer'd mercy who embrace,
Listening to the gospel call
Longing to be saved by grace?

For his mate the turtle moans,
For his God the sinner sighs;
Hark, the music of their groans,
Humble groans that pierce the skies!
Surely God their sorrow hears,
Every accent, every look,
Treasures up their gracious tears,
Notes their sufferings in his book.

He who hath their cure begun,

Will He now despise their pain?
Can He leave his work undone,
Bring them to the birth in vain ?
No; we all who seek shall find,

We who ask shall all receive,
Be to Christ in spirit join'd,

Free from sin for ever live.

At another time he is found at Portland. He is on a missionary tour; like his brother John, going first