I ran to raise the sufferer up;

Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup, Dipt, and return'd it running o'er;

I drank, and never thirsted more.

'T was night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof;

I heard his voice abroad, and flew

To bid him welcome to my roof;

I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd
In Eden's garden while I dream'd.

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway-side :
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied

Wine, oil, refreshment; he was heal'd:
I had myself a wound conceal'd;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.

In prison I saw him next, condemn'd

To meet a traitor's doom at morn: The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd

And honor'd him 'midst shame and scorn; My friendship's utmost zeal to try,

He ask'd if I for him would die ;

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill;

But the free spirit cried, "I will."

Then in a moment to my view

The Stranger darted from disguise; The tokens in His hands I knew,

My Saviour stood before mine eyes! He spake ; and my poor name He named : "Of Me thou hast not been ashamed; These deeds shall thy memorial be; Fear not; thou didst them unto Me."

SONGS OF PRAISE THE ANGELS SANG.

Songs of praise the angels sang,
Heaven with hallelujahs rang,

When Jehovah's work begun,
When He spake and it was done.

Songs of praise awoke the morn,
When the Prince of Peace was born;
Songs of praise arose when He
Captive led captivity.

Heaven and earth must pass away, Songs of praise shall crown that day ; God will make new heavens, new earth, Songs of praise shall hail their birth.

And can man alone be dumb,
Till that glorious kingdom come?
No; the church delights to raise
Psalms and hymns and songs of praise.

Saints below, with heart and voice,
Still in songs of praise rejoice,
Learning here, by faith and love,
Songs of praise to sing above.

Borne upon their latest breath,
Songs of praise shall conquer death;

Then, amidst eternal joy,

Songs of praise their powers employ.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
1772-1834.

FROM "HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI."

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?— God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!

God! sing ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost !
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest !
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the elements,
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise !

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure

serene,

Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast,—
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud

To rise before me-Rise, O, ever rise,

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth!
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

The linnet, and thrush say, "I love, and I love!" In the winter they 're silent, the wind is so

strong;

What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud

song.

But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,

And singing and loving-all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, "I love my Love, and my Love loves me !"

Thomas Moore.

1779-1852.

THOU ART, O GOD!

Thou art, O God! the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see ;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.