No! by the marvels of Thine hand,
Thou wilt save Thy chosen land!
By all Thine ancient mercies shown,
By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown;
By the Egyptian's car-borne host,
Scattered on the Red Sea coast —
By that wide and bloodless slaughter
Underneath the drowning water.

Like us, in utter helplessness,
In their last and worst distress—
On the sand and sea-weed lying-
Israel poured her doleful sighing;
While before the deep sea flowed,
And behind fierce Egypt rode―
To their fathers' God they prayed,

To the Lord of hosts for aid.

On the margin of the flood
With lifted rod the prophet stood;
And the summoned east wind blew,
And aside it sternly threw

The gathered waves that took their stand

Like crystal rocks, on either hand,
Or walls of sea-green marble piled
Round some irregular city wild.

Then the light of morning lay
On the wonder-paved way,
Where the treasures of the deep
In their caves of coral sleep.
The profound abysses, where
Was never sound from upper air,
Rang with Israel's chanted words:
King of kings! and Lord of lords!

Then with bow and banner glancing,
On exulting Egypt came;
With her chosen horsemen prancing,
And her cars on wheels of flame,
In a rich and boastful ring,
All around her furious king.

But the Lord from out His cloud,
The Lord looked down upon the proud;

And the host drave heavily Down the deep bosom of the sea.

With a quick and sudden swell
Prone the liquid ramparts fell;
Over horse, and over car,
Over every man of war,
Over Pharaoh's crown of gold,
The loud thundering billows rolled.
As the level waters spread,

Down they sank—they sank like lead-
Down sank without a cry or groan.
And the morning sun, that shone
On myriads of bright-armed men,
Its meridian radiance then

Cast on a wide sea, heaving, as of yore,
Against a silent, solitary shore.

HENRY HART MILMAN,

851

Time Past, Time Passing, Time to
Come.

LORD, Thou hast been Thy people's rest,
Through all their generations —
Their refuge when by troubles pressed,
Their hope in tribulations:
Thou, ere the mountains sprang to birth,
Or ever Thou hadst formed the earth,
Art God from everlasting.

Our life is like the transient breath,
That tells a mournful story-
Early or late stopped short by death-
And where is all our glory?
Our days are threescore years and ten,
And if the span be lengthened then,

Their strength is toil and sorrow.
Lo! Thou hast set before Thine eyes
All our misdeeds and errors;
Our secret sins from darkness rise

At Thine awakening terrors:
Who shall abide the trying hour?
Who knows the thunder of Thy power?
We flee unto Thy mercy.

Lord, teach us so to mark our days
That we may prize them duly;
So guide our feet in wisdom's ways
That we may love Thee truly;
Return, O Lord! our griefs behold,
And with Thy goodness, as of old,
Oh satisfy us early!

JAMES MONTGOMERY.