Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear, When round thy wondrous works below, Or by the light thy words disclose, When with dear friends sweet talks I hold, Let not my heart within me burn, When the soft dews of kindly sleep Abide with me from morn till eve, Thou Framer of the light and dark, Amid the howling wintry sea We are in port if we have Thee. The rulers of this Christian land, "Twixt Thee and us ordained to stand; Guide Thou their course, O Lord, aright, Let all do all as in thy sight. Oh, by Thine own sad burthen, borne So meekly up the hill of scorn, Teach Thou thy priests their daily cross To bear as Thine, nor count it loss! If some poor wandering child of Thine Watch by the sick: enrich the poor Come near and bless us when we wake, We lose ourselves in heaven above. Chapter V. MORE HYMNS OF THE FATHERS. Showing to the generations to come the praises of the Lord.” RIMITIVE Christianity soon found its way to the old seats of patriarchal life. Some of its first songs came from across the land which has "neither mountain, valley, or even plain— the whole being an unequal surface like the high and long waves of a deep sea when subsiding from a tempest into a calm;" with verdant hollows here and there, but with no "tree anywhere in sight to relieve the monotony of the scene." Along this mysterious reach, this ancient Mesopotamia, Abraham came, refreshing himself now and then on a grassy plot, on his way to Canaan. He came out of "Ur of the Chaldees" to be the Father of the faithful; and from the same place one, at least, of the Christian fathers came. He, too, was faithful; and by his Christian hymns he made faithfulness pleasant to his own generation and to many following ages. Ephrem Syrus was born by the crystal waters which refresh the city of Orfah, once Edessa, and which form the lake known to those who enjoy the mulberry groves which overshadow its banks as "Abraham the beloved, or the Friend of God." Ephrem, like all who aimed at high spirituality in the fourth century, became a devoted monk; and on some aspects of his character there still remain shadows of the asceticism which was peculiar to a time of reaction from social licentiousness and decay. But with all Ephrem's asceticism, his hymns testify that he had learnt the lesson which the Saviour so gracefully taught his disciples; that, though in some cases religious celibacy might be in keeping with the spirit and principles of his kingdom-hardness and severity were in no case consistent with Christian piety; that the hardness which the law of Moses admitted, and which showed itself in those stern rebukes which were cast on the women who brought their infants to Jesus, must yield to that gentle love which looked with utmost tenderness upon the little ones whose humility, simplicity, and submissiveness typify the highest style of the Christian character. The venerable Mesopotamian hymnist, however severe in his treatment of self, was like his divine Master in his feelings towards children. He must have laid his hands on them lovingly. His smile must have been full of blessing. How sweetly He attunes his music to the voices of his "little flock," while He teaches them to sing in unison with children in paradise— To Thee, O God, be praises As in the heavenly meadows Like spotless lambs they feed. 'Mid leafy trees they pasture, Thus saith the Blessed Spirit; That happy flock doth lead. The messengers of heaven, No curse or woe they see. And at the resurrection, Brief here below their sojourn, And one bright day their parents The heart that is gentle enough to be childlike among children must always have deep sympathy with parents, especially under the sorrows of bereavement. And many a lover of little children, though never himself really touched by the unspeakable pang of seeing his own babe breathe its last, has shown himself capable of entering very deeply into the feeling of the desolated parent, almost as if that feeling were his own. A few touching verses from a living author afford an example of such inspirations of sympathizing genius. The author of "Records of the Western Shore," had no child of his own when he issued his first volume, but he utters the grief of a Cornish mother, thus: They say 'tis a sin to sorrow, I know it should be a pleasure |