Is that Shechinah of Almighty speech

Where dwells The Spirit, time and souls to teach Beneath whatever name 'tis known, or heard, Scripture, or Bible, or the Sacred Word.

With this, comparison must be profane :-
Yet, laud we not in too heroic strain
Britannia's Liturgy, for matchless power

To guide the conscience through its perill'd hour.

Calm, deep, and solemn, chaste, and most sublim
Breathing eternity, yet full of time,

Pure as seraphic lips in Heaven desire,
And fervid as the souls of saints on fire.

With rapture,-is the Litany we love :
Sickness and sorrow both its blessing prove
And oft have mourners in the heart's despair
Found a deep refuge for dejection there.

A healing softness and a holy balm
That Book pervade, like inspiration's calm,
Subdued intensity and sacred rest,
Which never fail the lonely, and distrest.

For, oh, we need not morbid passion's force,
Nor hurried feeling in its reinless course,
Nor problems dark, for reasoning pride to scan
But what we need is,-mercy-tones for man

The sun-bright Angel, who adores and sings,
Covers his brow with reverential wings;
And perfect Saints who most their GOD ador
Sink low in feeling, ere by faith they soar.

The past breathes here the poetry of time,
And thrills the present with a tone sublime,
Till buried ages of the Church's youth

Rise, and re-charm the world with Ancient trut

Thou glorious masterpiece of olden Prayer!
Deeper thy wisdom than cold words declare;
Ever opposing some recurrent sin

States act without, or Churches feel within.

Not light men want, but love,-exceeding all
An age of idols dares devotion call;

A childlike frame of purity and peace,

Where Christ in conscience works divine release.

And, who the archives of thy past can see,
Nor recognize the eye of GOD o'er thee,
Presiding there with providential gaze
To fit thy teaching for these fallen days?

Creedless and proud, high-cultured, full of self,
Greedy of gain, and worshippers of pelf,-
Our wealth grows Christless as the world gets old,
And none seem sages, but the bad and bold!

Then, bless we GOD for Prayers where men are taught
Low at the Truth to bow rebellious thought;

Each lawless working of the will to chain,
And yield to GOD the bosom's throne again.

Repentance, bitter, stern, profound and true,
Obedient hearts, which yearn to dare and do
Whate'er the doctrines of the Cross command,—
God send the Church, for this apostate land!

Rather as servants, than as Sons, we bow

Down at the Shrine of awful Godhead now;

Though heirs of grace, in CHRIST our own we claim, How have we barter'd our baptismal name!

Hence, sad humility and fear become

The sinful race which leaves their FATHER'S home;
Cries of dejection, more than chants of joy,
Returning prodigals may best employ.

Nor be forgot, that England's Prayer Book gives
Pure, full and plain, THE WORD by which she lives!
Not dungeon'd in some dead and alien tone,
But where the peasant-boy perceives his own.

There, lisping Childhood, when it longs to learn Truths for which Prophets bled, and Martyrs burn, In such pure liturgy of grace may find

All which can feed the heart, and form he mind.

For, Common Prayer, if Catholic and true,
Must not be tinged with individual hue,
But be proportioned to the soul of Man,
In deep accordance with redemption's plan.

LORD of the Church! of sacrament and rite,
In this may all adoring hearts delight,
"How Apostolic is the root of all

Our Church maternal, would devotion call!"

The heart of Ages still within them lives,
Takes from the past, and to the present gives
That hoary spell which hallows thought and word,
And wakens feeling in its finest chord.

Since, not from Rome, but ancient Gaul we bring
The choral Hymns our Altars chant and sing;
And many a word Devotion dwells upon,

Hung on thy lips, thou loved and lone St. John! (') .

Source of the Church! true Paraclete for all,
Long may such prayers on CHRIST for mercy call;
No deeper grace can thy pure wisdom give,—

Then what our lips repeat, our hearts may live.

See Palmer's "Origines Liturgicæ," for historical proof of this.

THE SHIPWRECK.

A TALE FOUNDED ON AN ANCIENT LEGEND.

CHAPTER I.THE COTTAGERS.

THERE LIVED many years ago, in the remote County of Cornwall an old man whose name was Maurice Fenton. He and his wife Molly resided in a neat little cottage by the sea-side; they were very old, their daughters had long been married, and their two sons were at sea; so they were quite alone, and their only companions were an old dog, and two or three fowls. Their cottage was situated in the Parish of Manaccan: it was a pattern of cleanliness, and there was a neat little garden in front of it. Old Maurice, after that he was too old to work, used to amuse himself all day long in his garden, fixing the woodbine and roses against the wall, or tying up his flowers, of which he was very proud. Molly who was many years younger than Maurice would Occupy herself in feeding the fowls, and teaching some of the little village children to read. Sometimes Maurice would go out and he was very fond

take a walk, and his dog always went with him of sitting upon the brow of a cliff, and watching the vessels as they passed; for he was an old sailor, and still took pleasure in gazing on the sea. Besides he knew that his two sons were on the broad deep; and he was himself right well accustomed to the

perils of a sea-faring life. Many a night, when the wind was howling, and the waves roaring, did old Maurice and his wife lie awake thinking about their sons, and the great dangers with which they are all beset "who go down to the sea in ships, and do business in the great waters."

SOMETIMES. though not very often, there were wrecks upon that coast; and, when any occured, old Maurice and his wife were always foremost to do what they could for the sufferers; for Maurice had been shipwrecked himself once, and had been very kindly treated in his distress; so he was always willing to do for others, what he had so much needed, and was so thankful once to receive at the hands of a good-hearted stranger, when his vessel was driven ashore off the coast of Portugal. The time of which we are writing was not long after the conquest of England, by William the Norman. The ancient Saxon inhabitants were beginning to be reconciled to the Norman invaders, and the country was once more restored to a state of comparative tranquility. Old Maurice was a Saxon, but he was a good old man and never quarrelled with any of his new neighbours, so they loved him, and were always ready to forget their prejudices and do a kindness for him. One cold day in December, when the snow was on the ground, old Maurice took his hat and stick, and having wrapped his cloak tightly about his shoulders, set out for the cliff. The sun was shining, and the sky was speckled here and there with white fleecy clouds which seemed chasing one another over its azure surface: but it was blowing very hard, and when Maurice was seating himself on the long-accustomed station above Gilleyne Harbor, one might have heard him say :-"much if there aint a storm afore night." He sat long upon the cliff, but not one vessel did he see: a storm was coming on, and the wind was so high that the old man was obliged to leave his seat, and take shelter beneath a rock. The waves were dashing at his feet, each as it fell seeming louder, the rain began to fall, and the uneasiness of the sea-birds betokened the approaching tempest.

MAURICE now saw that he could stay no longer, so taking u his stick, and calling his dog, he bent his steps homewards; bu