Yet, Holy Father, wild despair
Chase from my labouring breast;
Thy grace it is, which prompts the prayer;
That grace can do the rest.

My life's brief remnant all be thine

And, when thy sure decree

Bids me this fleeting breath resign,

Oh! speed my soul to Thee!-BISHOP MIDDLETON.

HERRICK'S LITANY.*

In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the house doth sigh and weep
And the world is drowned in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the priest his last hath prayed,
And I nod to what is said,

'Cause my speech is now decayed,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the judgment is revealed,
And that opened which was sealed,
When to Thee I have appealed,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

THE WILD PALM.

'MID rocks, and sands, and barrenness,
How beautiful to see

The wild Palm in its desert dress-
The solitary tree!

Alone, amid the silent wild,

It rears its spreading crest;

The boundless desert's favoured child,
In constant verdure drest.

An emblem of that faith that cheers

The pilgrim on his road,

Through life's dark vale of care and tears,
Beneath his earthly load.

* Robert Herrick was a poet of the time of Charles the First.

For, like that faith alone it stands,
A bright oasis in the sands,

With hand-like leaves against the sky,
Pointing to Immortality!

FIELD FLOWERS.

FLOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem

Man's frailty to pourtray;

Blooming so fair in morning's beam,
Passing at eve away;

Teach this, and, oh! though brief your reign,
Sweet flowers, ye shall not live in vain.

Go, form a monitory wreath

For youth's unthinking brow;
Go, and to busy manhood breathe
What most he fears to know;

Go, strew the path where age doth tread,
And tell him of the silent dead.

But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay
Ye breathe these truths severe,
To those who droop in pale decay,
Have ye no word of cheer?
Oh, yes, ye weave a double spell,
And death and life betoken well.

Go, then, where wrapt in fear and gloom,
Fond hearts and true are sighing,
And deck with emblematic bloom
The pillow of the dying;

And softly speak, nor speak in vain,
Of your long sleep and broken chain.
And say that He, who from the dust
Recalls the slumbering flower,
Will surely visit those who trust
His mercy and His power;

Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay,

And roll, ere long, the stone away.

Blackwood's Magazine.

SILENCE.

WHERE dwelleth Silence ?-In the cloistered cell ?-
The moonlit-grove, when e'en the song is o'er
Of night's sweet choristers, and the faint swell

Of evening's latest breeze is heard no more?
Where dwelleth Silence?-On the desert shore,
Where, from Creation's birth, no human voice
Hath yet been heard to sorrow or rejoice,
Nor human foot hath dared its wilds explore ?—

Are these thy homes, O Silence ?-No;-e'en there
A void comes awful as the solitude,

That humbles nature in her sternest mood,
And quells the fiercest savage in his lair:
In peopled cities, as in waste untrod,

Its tones are mighty,-'tis the voice of God.

"In all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the hour of death, and in the day of judgment;

"GOOD LORD DELIVER US."-Litany.

In the dark season of distress,
In sickness, want, or woe;
If friends desert, or foes oppress,
Or trouble lay me low:
If reft of those I fondly love,

From earthly ills I flee,

To seek sweet comfort from above,
Good Lord deliver me.

If wealth be mine, from all the snares
Which riches with them bring,
Oppression, avarice, worldly cares,
Ambition's goading sting;

From pride, and from that worst offence,

Forgetfulness of Thee,

Whose hand that wealth did first dispense,
Good Lord deliver me.

When on the bed of death, a prey

To gloomy thoughts I lie,

Or worn by slow disease away,

Or racked with agony;

Stung with remorse for what hath been,

And dreading what may be,

When death hath closed this mortal scene,

Good Lord deliver me.

And oh! in that appalling hour,

When clouds around Thee spread,

Thou comest arrayed in pomp and power,
To judge both quick and dead;
When trembling, shrinking from thy face,
Thy servant thou shalt see,

A suppliant at the bar of grace,

Good Lord deliver me!-J. I.

SOCIAL WORSHIP.

THERE is a joy, which angels well may prize:
To see, and hear, and aid God's worship, when
Unnumbered tongues, a host of Christian men,
Youths, matrons, maidens, join. Their sounds arise,
"Like many waters;" now glad symphonies

Of thanks and glory to our God; and then,
Seal of the social prayer, the loud Amen,

Faith's common pledge, contrition's mingled cries.
Thus, when the Church of Christ was hale and young,
She called on God, one spirit and one voice;
Thus from corruption cleansed, with health new strung,
Her sons she nurtured. Oh! be their's, by choice,
What duty bids, to worship, heart and tongue;

At once to pray, at once in God rejoice!-D. C.

THE HOUSE OF GOD.

Ir is the Sabbath bell, which calls to prayer,

Even to the HOUSE of GOD, the hallowed dome, Where He who claims it bids his people come To bow before His throne, and serve him there With prayers, and thanks, and praises. Some there are Who hold it meet to linger now at home,

And some o'er fields and the wide hills to roam,

And worship in the temple of the air!

For me, not heedless of the lone address,

Nor slack to greet my neighbour on the height,

By wood, or living stream; yet not the less
Seek I His presence in each social rite

Of His own temple: that He deigns to bless,

There still He dwells, and there is His delight.-D. C.

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

BY BISHOP HEBER.

O SAVIOUR, Whom this holy morn
Gave to our world below;
To mortal want and labour born,
And more than mortal woe!

Incarnate Word! by every grief
By each temptation tried,
Who lived to yield our ills relief,
And to redeem us died!

If gaily clothed and proudly fed,
In dangerous wealth we dwell,
Remind us of Thy manger-bed,
And lowly cottage-cell!

If prest by poverty severe,
In envious want we pine,
Oh may the Spirit whisper near,
How poor a lot was Thine!

Through fickle fortune's various scene
From sin preserve us free!
Like us Thou hast a mourner been,
May we rejoice with Thee!

A PRAYER WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

BY BISHOP HEBER.

WHEN sickness to my fainting soul,
Her fearful form displayed,
I to my secret chamber stole,
And humbly thus I prayed.

If softened by the impending stroke
My heart, O Lord! will yield;
In mercy thy decree revoke,

And let my wound be healed.

But if from memory's tablet soon,
Ingratitude would tear

The bounteous Giver and the boon,
Oh, hear not thou my prayer!

Rather than bear that blackest stain
Within my breast-I'd brave
The keenest throb of restless pain;
The terrors of the grave.

If health's unmerited return
Should bless my future days,
Oh! may I from thy Spirit learn
A daily song of praise.

But should I shortly hence depart,

Or lingering, suffer still,

May that blest Spirit, Lord! impart
Submission to thy will.

MORNING.

THE God of mercy walks his round
From day to day, from year to year
And warns us each with awful sound,
"No longer stand ye idle here."

Ye whose young cheeks are rosy bright,
Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear

Waste not of youth the morning light,

Oh fools, why stand ye idle here?