Conscious of Deity within,

To bow before an heir of sin,

With folded arms on humble breast,
By his own servant wash'd and blest:-

Then full of Heaven, the mystic Dove
Hovering his gracious brow above,
To shun the voice and eye of praise,
And in the wild his trophies raise :-

With hymns of angels in his ears,
Back to his task of woe and tears,
Unmurmuring through the world to roam
With not a wish or thought at home:-

All but himself to heal and save,

Till ripen'd for the cross and grave

He to His Father gently yield

The breath that our redemption seal'd:

Then to unearthly life arise,

Yet not at once to seek the skies,

But glide awhile from saint to saint,

Lest on our lonely way we faint;

And through the cloud by glimpses shew How bright, in Heaven, the marks will glow Of the true cross, imprinted deep

Both on the Shepherd and the sheep:

When out of sight, in heart and prayer
Thy chosen people still to bear,
And from behind thy glorious veil,
Shed light that cannot change or fail:-

This is thy pastoral course, O LORD,
Till we be sav'd, and Thou ador'd ;-
Thy course and ours--but who are they
Who follow on the narrow way?

And yet of Thee from year to year
The Church's solemn chant we hear,
As from thy cradle to thy throne
She swells her high heart-checring tone.

Listen, ye pure white-robed souls,
Whom in her list she now enrolls,
And gird ye for your high emprize
By these her thrilling minstrelsies.

And wheresoe'er, in earth's wide field,
Ye lift, for Him, the red-cross shield,
Be this your song, your joy and pride-
"Our Champion went before and died.”

TRINITY SUNDAY.

If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe, if I tell you of heavenly things? St. John iii. 12.

CREATOR, Saviour, strengthening Guide,

Now on Thy mercy's ocean wide
Far out of sight we seem to glide.

Help us, each hour, with steadier eye
To search the deepening mystery,
The wonders of Thy sea and sky.

The blessed angels look and long
To praise Thee with a worthier song,
And yet our silence does Thee wrong.—

Along the Church's central space
The sacred weeks with unfelt pace
Have borne us on from grace to grace.

As travellers on some woodland height, When wintry suns are gleaming bright, Lose in arch'd glades their tangled sight ;

By glimpses such as dreamers love
Through her grey veil the leafless
Shews where the distant shadows rove ;-

grove

Such trembling joy the soul o'er-awes

As nearer to thy shrine she draws:-
And now before the choir we pause.

The door is clos'd-but soft and deep
Around the awful arches sweep

Such airs as soothe a hermit's sleep.

From each carv'd nook and fretted bend

Cornice and gallery seem to send

Tones that with seraph hymns might blend.

Three solemn parts together twine

In harmony's mysterious line;

Three solemn aisles approach the shrine:

Yet all are One-together all,

In thoughts that awe but not appal,
Teach the adoring heart to fall.

Within these walls each fluttering guest Is gently lur'd to one safe nestWithout, 'tis moaning and unrest.

The busy world a thousand ways
Is hurrying by, nor ever stays
To catch a note of Thy dear praise.

Why tarries not her chariot wheel,
That o'er her with no vain appeal
One gust of heavenly song might steal?

Alas! for her Thy opening flowers
Unheeded breathe to summer showers,
Unheard the music of Thy bowers.

N