Hymn to the Night.

And they, who with their Leader
Have conquer'd in the fight,

For ever and for ever

Are clad in robes of white.

5

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Hymn to the Night.

LONGFELLOW.-Music by S. Glover.

HEARD the trailing garments of the night
Sweep through the marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above:

The calm majestic presence of the night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold soft chimes,

That fill the haunted chambers of the night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose ;

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!

Thou lay'st thy finger on the lips of care,

And they complain no more.

Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend, with broad-wing'd flight,

The welcome, the thrice pray'd for, the most fair,
The best belovèd night.

The Lost Day.

MRS L. H. SIGOURNEY.

LOST! lost! lost!

A gem of countless price, Cut from the living rock,

And graved in Paradise : Set round with three times eight Large diamonds, clear and bright, And each with sixty smaller ones, All changeful as the light.

Lost-where the thoughtless throng
In Fashion's mazes wind,
Where trilleth folly's song,
Leaving a sting behind.
Yet to my hand 'twas given,

A golden harp to buy,

Such as the white-robed choir attune

To deathless minstrelsy.

Lost lost! lost!

I feel all search is vain ; That gem of countless cost

Can ne'er be mine again :

I offer no reward

For till these heartstrings sever, I know that Heaven's entrusted gift Is reft away for ever.

But when the sea and land,

Like burning scroll have fled,

I'll see it in His hand,

Who judgeth quick and dead,

Passing Away.

And when of scathe and loss
That man can ne'er repair,
The dread inquiry meets my soul,
What shall it answer there?

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Passing Away.

MRS HEMANS.-Music by John Blockley.

T is written on the rose, in its glory's full array,— Read what those buds disclose,-"Passing away!" It is written in the skies of the soft blue summer day; It is traced in sunset dyes,-" Passing away!"

It is written on the trees, as their young leaves glittering play,

And on brighter things than these,-" Passing away!"
It is written on the brow where the spirit's ardent ray
Lives, burns, and triumphs now,-" Passing away!"

It is written on the heart,-alas! that there decay Should claim from love a part,-" Passing away!" Friends-friends! oh, shall we meet in a land of purer day,

Where lovely things and sweet pass not away?

Shall we know each other's eyes, and the thoughts that in them lay,

When we mingle sympathies,-" Passing away?"

Oh, if this may be so, speed, speed their closing day!
How blest from earth's vain show to pass away!

MY

To a Child.

REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Y fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things-not dream them-all day long;
And so make life, death, and that vast for ever
One grand sweet song.

Too Late!

ALFRED TENNYSON.-Music by John Blockley.

LATE, late, so late! and dark the night, and chill ;

Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

No light had we, for that we do repent;
And, learning this, the Bridegroom will relent.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

No light, so late, and dark and chill the night;
Oh, let us in that we may find the light!

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet?
Oh, let us in, though late, to kiss His feet!
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.

Church Music.

As Down in the Sunless Retreats.

As

T. MOORE.-Air, Haydn.

S down in the sunless retreats of the ocean, Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see; So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee,My God! silent to Thee!

Pure, warm, silent to Thee!

As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,
The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea;
So, dark as I roam in this wintry world shrouded,
The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee,
My God! trembling to Thee,—

True, fond, trembling to Thee!

Church Music.

JOHN MILTON.

UT let my due feet never fail

BU

To walk the studious cloisters pale,

And love the high embowèd roof
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight
Casting a dim religious light;
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced choir below
In service high, and anthem clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all heaven before mine eyes.