A TRUANT HOUR.

The hum of men, the roar of wheels, That filled the streets erewhile, are gone; The inner consciousness but feels

The lordly river rolling on.

The course of thoughts and being, pent
As waters ere they plunge below,
Reflects a downward firmament

Of life and things, in gleamy show.

Thus rest, so hushed with airs of balm That reach them from their promise land, The righteous souls, in stillest calm

Laid up in their Redeemer's hand.

All that has been, and all that is,

Back from their thoughts in light is given,
Deep firmaments of inward bliss
Far glittering into distant heaven.

The while, side-heard as in a dream,
The ages strike their solemn chime;
And from the ancient hills, the stream
Rolls onward of predestined Time.

Henry Alford.

THE LITTLE MOURNER.

"CHILD, whither goest thou
Over the snowy hill?
The frost-air nips so keen,

That the very clouds are still;
From the golden folding curtains

The Sun hath not looked forth, And brown the snow-mist hangs

Round the mountains to the north."

On the western side,

A happy, happy company

In holy peace abide;

My father, and my mother,

And my sisters four

Their beds are made in swelling turf,

Fronting the western door."

THE LITTLE MOURNER.

Then wherefore art thou going
Over the snowy hill?

Why seek thy low-laid family,

Where they lie cold and still?"

"Stranger, when the summer heats
Would dry their turfy bed,
Duly from this loving hand

With water it is fed;

They must be cleared this morning
From the thick-laid snow ;-
So now along the frosted field,
Stranger, let me go."

Alford.

THOU Saviour, who Thyself didst give,
That all the world might turn and live,
Who dost the careless sinner draw
With cords of love to Thy pure law,
Who dost Thy Church with fondness call,
And by Thy grace receivest all;

Behold us, Lord, before Thy throne,

Inspire and make our hearts Thine own;
Bind to Thy Cross our wandering will,
Each act with holy purpose fill;
Our weakness let Thy strength defend,
Thou Author of our faith, and End.

Same.

REFRESH me with the bright-blue violet,

And put the pale faint-scented primrose near,

For I am breathing yet:

Shed not one silly tear;

But when mine eyes are set,

Scatter the fresh flowers thick upon my bier,

And let my early grave with morning dew be wet.