Oh may we thus be found
Obedient to his word;

Attentive to the trumpet's sound,
And looking for our Lord!
Oh may we thus ensure

A lot among the blest;

And watch a moment to secure
An everlasting rest!

But among the many judgment hymns which must be ever precious to those who "look for their Lord," who can forget one that rose from Oxford, about forty years ago, kindling afresh the faith of English Christians, and awakening the Church to brighter and holier anticipations of its Lord's descent. Henry Hart Milman will always be reverenced by the lovers of high class church history, and be thought of with admiration and thankfulness by all who enjoy the Christian hymn when it rises into impressive grandeur. Dean Milman, now a venerable man bending under the weight of years, is the son of Sir Francis Milman, physician to George III. Born in 1791; educated at Eton and Oxford, he was advanced in 1817 to the vicarage of St. Mary's, Reading; and four years after was installed as University Professor of Poetry at Oxford; and while filling that chair, he gave forth his hymn on "The Last Day"

The chariot, the chariot! its wheels roll on fire,
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire;
Self-moving, it drives on its pathway of cloud,

And the heavens with the burthen of Godhead are bowed.

The glory, the glory! around Him are poured

The myriads of angels that wait on the Lord;

And the glorified saints, and the martyrs are there,

And all who the palm-wreath of victory wear.

The trumpet, the trumpet! the dead have all heard,
Lo! the depths of the stone-covered charnel are stirred;
From the ocean and earth, from the south and the north,
Lo! the vast generations of ages come forth!

The judgment, the judgment! the thrones are all set,
Where the Lamb and the white-vested elders are met;
All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord,
And the doom of eternity hangs on his word.

Oh mercy, oh mercy! look down from above,
Redeemer, on us Thy sad children, with love.

When beneath, to their darkness the wicked are driven,
May our sanctified souls find a mansion in heaven.

Chapter XXIV.

SONGS OF GLORY.

"And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Sion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads."

HERE are many who look wishfully for im

mortal pleasures in heaven, while they withhold themselves from preparatory religious pleasures upon earth. And some, too, who with a sort of instinctive yearning for repose in the future, sing of eternal rest, though as yet they have not been fully submissive to Him who is the only source and giver of rest. There are moments in the life of human genius when divine and celestial realities assert their claims on the gifted soul, and call out from it songs and hymns which have a music and a power for minds far more spiritual than the author's, a music and a power which the hymnist himself, perhaps, never so deeply felt. Thomas Moore, it may be, though expressing the aspiration of his own soul in one of its better moments, never knew with how deep a charm his verses touch the more fully sanctified spirit, who patiently longs for the moment of its upward spring into eternal life.

The bird let loose in Eastern skies
When hastening fondly home,

Ne'er stoops to earth his wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam;

But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from every care,
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
My soul as home she springs;
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom in her wings!

Many a heavenly-minded Christian with whom Moore would have but little sympathy, will thank God for the pen of the man who has thus afforded him a tuneful form of expressing what he himself could never so express, while pluming his wings for a homeward flight. So, the same hymnist has furnished a song of glory which those whose heavenliness is a principle and habit rather than a mere sentiment, will always sing with feelings richer, probably, and holier, than the inspiration which gave it birth

This world is all a fleeting show

For man's illusion given;

The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow;

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom
Are blossoms gathered from the tomb;

There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven;
And fancy's flash, and reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way;
There's nothing calm but Heaven!

To those whose heavenly-mindedness is pure enough to long for the future without being embittered with the present, this hymn expresses a Christian's preference for heaven; a peaceful and holy superiority to the vanities of earth; but on other lips it may have another meaning: it may be the language of one who turns plaintively towards heaven in the crisis of bitter disappointment and vexation with the falsehoods of this world. Those who can sing from their hearts

Thou know'st in the spirit of prayer,
We long Thy appearing to see,
Resign'd to the burden we bear,

But longing to triumph with Thee;
'Tis good at Thy word to be here,
'Tis better in Thee to be gone,

And see Thee in glory appear,

And rise to a share in Thy throne;

those who in "patience possess their souls," while they linger in sweet suspense on the shadowy borders of time, love rather the quiet and submissive joyfulness of songs like Anne Steele's hymn on "The Promised Land." Peacefully looking out into the brightening distance from her chamber of sickness, or from her garden terrace, where her Saviour's strength was made perfect in her weakness, or from the avenue of fir-trees where whispers of mortal strife sometimes touched her ear, she used to sing