Come not in terrors, as the King of kings;
But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings,
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea ;

Come, Friend of sinners, and thus abide with me.

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile,
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee.
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me!

I need Thy presence every passing hour:
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's
power?

Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be?
Thro' cloud and sunshine, oh, abide with me!

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless ;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness :
Where is death's sting? where, grave, thy

victory?

I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes : Shine through the gloom, and point me to the

skies;

Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee :

In life and death, O Lord, abide with me!

William Beattie.

1793-1875.

FROM "EVENING HYMN OF THE ALPINE
SHEPHERDS."

Brothers, the day declines;
Above, the glacier brightens ;
Through hills of waving pines
The "vesper halo" lightens !
Now wake the welcome chorus
To Him our sires adored;
To Him who watcheth o'er us,-
Ye shepherds, praise the Lord!

From each tower's embattled crest
The vesper-bell has toll'd;
'Tis the hour that bringeth rest
To the shepherd and his fold:
From hamlet, rock, and chalet
Let our evening song be pour'd;
Till mountain, rock, and valley
Re-echo,-Praise the Lord!

Praise the Lord, who made and gave us
Our glorious mountain-land!
Who deign'd to shield and save us

From the despot's iron hand:
With the bread of life He feeds us;
Enlighten'd by His word,

Through pastures green He leads us,-
Ye shepherds, praise the Lord!

Felicia Dorothea bemans.

1793-1835.

KINDRED HEARTS.

O, ask not, hope thou not, too much

Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet-

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky
Where the rich sunset burns ;
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring,—
A dream to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times,

A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night;

The wind that, with so many a tone,

Some chord within can thrill,

These may have language all thine own, To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this the true
And steadfast love of years;

The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watched through sickness by thy bed,
Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade
With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,

O, lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away :
Mother, with thine earnest eye
Ever following silently:
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call'd thy harvest-work to leave,-
Pray! ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

Traveller in the stranger's land,

Far from thine own household band :

Mourner, haunted by the tone

Of a voice from this world

gone:

Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell:
Sailor, on the darkening sea,

Lift the heart and bend the knee.

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain,
Weeping on his burial-plain:
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see,

Lift the heart and bend the knee.

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

The breaking waves dashed high,

On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed.

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;