Chapter XVII.

SONGS OF THE MORNING.

But I will sing of thy power: yea, I will sing aloud of thy mercy in

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the morning."

T is pleasant to sit in the oriel window of an old grammar-school library, with the many-coloured

light falling on the open folio as it lies on the ponderous reading-desk, and to hear, amidst one's musings, the music of the boys' voices as their morning hymn comes floating up along the gallery, gently touching the soul with its mellow harmony. How many a time since the fourteenth century, when William of Wykeham opened his Winchester School, has such morning music charmed the old college of that storied city. Bishop Mant used to think with pleasure of the morning hymn which the boys used to sing in that school in his days. It was the simple, beautiful, and devout old song, "Jam lucis orto sidere," etc., and nothing could be more happily chosen as a morning song for the young scholars. Mant threw his whole soul into his translation of it.

Brightly shines the morning star:
Pray we God his grace to give,
That from sin and danger far
We the coming day may live.

That the tongue by Him withheld,
May from sounds of strife refrain;
That the eye, from roving quelled,
Seek not sights corrupt or vain;

That the heart, with pureness fraught,
May from folly turn aside;
And the flesh, by temperance taught,
Calm its lusts and veil its pride.

That, when the day shall close,
And the night successive bring,

We, triumphant o'er our foes,
May our hymn of glory sing;

Glory, Sire of all, to Thee;

And to Thee, co-equal Son,

With the Spirit glory be;

One in Three, and Three in One.

Between one and two hundred years before Mant's time, that same hymn was sung in that same school, and among the rest of the voices then swelling the devout music there was Ken's; and how far the style, and manner, and spirit of that ancient hymn served to form that habit of tuneful expression which afterwards distinguished the good bishop, who can tell? Should we ever have had his inimitable morning hymn but for that early Winchester exercise? Probably, when in after life he used to chant his own morning and evening hymns to the music of his lute, his soul was giving forth the echoes of the old melody which had so deeply touched his poetic soul while yet a boy. To think of morning songs is always to think of

Bishop Ken, and, whether the morning be bright or

dull, his hymn is always fresh :

Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;
Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise
To pay thy morning sacrifice.

Thy precious time misspent redeem;
Each present day thy last esteem;
Improve thy talent with due care;
For the great day thyself prepare.

In conversation be sincere;

Keep conscience as the noontide clear;
Think how all-seeing God thy ways
And all thy secret thoughts surveys.

By influence of the light divine,
Let thy own light to others shine;
Reflect all heav'n's propitious rays,
In ardent love and cheerful praise.

Wake and lift up thyself, my heart,
And with the angels bear thy part,
Who all night long unwearied sing
High praise to the Eternal King.
Awake! awake! ye heavenly choir,
May your devotion me inspire,
That I, like you, my age may spend,
Like you, may on my God attend.

May I, like you, in God delight,
Have all day long my God in sight,
Perform like you my Maker's will!
Oh may I never more do ill!

Had I your wings, to heaven I'd fly;
But God shall that defect supply;
And my soul, wing'd with warm desire,
Shall all day long to heaven aspire.

All praise to Thee, who safe has kept,
And hast refreshed me while I slept!
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake,
I may of endless light partake!

I would not wake nor rise again,
Ev'n heaven itself I would disdain,
Wert Thou not there to be enjoy'd
And I in hymns to be employ❜d.

Heav'n is, dear Lord, where'er Thou art;
Oh never then from me depart!

For, to my soul, 'tis hell to be

But for one moment void of Thee.

Lord, I my vows to thee renew;

Disperse my sins as morning dew,

Guard my first springs of thought and will,
And with thyself my spirit fill.

Direct, control, suggest, this day,

All I design, or do, or say;

That all my powers, with all their might,
In thy sole glory may unite.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him, all creatures here below!
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

The best of men are never entirely independent of circumstances. Our religious feelings and expressions often take their tone from the atmosphere about us, and especially from the present physical condition of the outer man. Thought flows freely, or lags in heaviness, just as the subtle influences around us quicken or oppress. And though no mere circumstances can entirely quench the fire of genius, or prevent the Christian poet from uttering his inspirations, yet his

hymns and songs will often be sprightly or plaintive as outward changes pass over him, or as the condition. of his physical life is shadowy or bright. Each morn⚫ing seems to bring its own inspiration to every pious hymnist. The morning song should be sprightly; but sometimes even the morning has shadows which give a kind of holy melancholy to the tone of praise. The praise that should wing its way upward, now and then lingers in the form of plaintive reflection or humble appeal. So in one of Toplady's songs of the morning. Not far from a spot in his Devonshire parish, where Cluniac monks used to sing such morning songs as came from their brother, Bernard of Morlaix, and others, his kindred hymnists, Toplady learnt to wear his weak body down by nightly study, until his morning songs became rather sombre or languid at times, so that they touch our human sympathy, while they have a subdued tone of feeling to our worship. Nevertheless, that day is well begun which opens with a song from the author of "Rock of Ages." His "Hymn for the Morning" runs thus

Jesus, by whose grace I live,
From the fear of evil kept,
Thou hast lengthen'd my reprieve,
Held in being while I slept;
With the day my heart renew;
Let me wake thy will to do.

Since the last revolving dawn
Scattered the nocturnal cloud,
Oh, how many souls have gone,

Unprepared to meet their God!
Yet Thou dost prolong my breath,
Hast not seal'd my eyes in death.