Oh, let us feel in all thy care,

While still the sands of life shall run-
And feeling, breathe the constant prayer,
To let "Thy will be done."

When those we love give up their breath,
And pass like shadows to their rest,
Then, as we close their eyes in death,
And to our lips the hand is press'd,
When the last look and kiss is given-
Oh, let us hope that they have won
A crown of light and life in heaven;
And cry, "Thy will be done."

The fever'd lip, the burning brain,
The sinking heart, the fading bloom,
And many a throb or shriek of pain,
May warn the body of its doom;
And though in these the Spirit clings
To earth, and lingers with the sun,
Yet let it, ere to heaven it wings,

Sigh soft, "Thy will be done."

The Lord of life, who taught us how,
Who taught us even thus to pray,
On Olivet, when bending low,

Wrapt in a vest of mortal clay,

Thrice knelt, and thrice aloud did cry-
His hour of peril then begun ;-
E'en in his sweating agony-

66 Father, Thy will be done."

W. MARTIN.

HYMN.

HOURS and days, and months, and years,
Like a shadow fleet away,

And in vain would sighs and tears
Call them back, or bid them stay.
Travelling here brooks no delay,
Not a step in life will last;
Every pleasure of to-day
Is, to-morrow-pleasure past.
Earth, the grave of buried nations,
Now beholds us fresh and sound,
Soon shall coming generations
See us shed upon the ground.
Earth is thus in constant round,
Dust that perishes and lives;
Man, what more in thee is found,
But that more thy Maker gives?
God, Almighty, good, and wise,
More than this is thy design;
Lo! there beams in human eyes,
Light that shows a soul divine.
Why should mortals then repine,
Frail though all around we see?
Life that we to thee resign,

Soon shall be a life with thee.
What though time on earth were over,
Not on time our hopes depend,

For beyond it we discover

Life that never knows an end. 'Mid the woes that life attend, Still for rest we turn to thee, God, a father, and a friend, Changeless in his Son we see.

Father aye in all our need,
Father aye in weal and woe,
Father even of the dead,

When into the grave we go,
Change may toss us to and fro;
Changeless he in whom we trust,
Even our dust his care shall know
When our bodies come to dust.
Then let days and years be fleeting,
Swiftly fly our joys and woes,
'Mid the changes we are meeting,
God, our God, no changes knows.
Ours be then a life that shows
That, conducted by his hand,
We but enter, at its close,

Our eternal Fatherland.

DUTCH ANTHOLOGY.

SHALL WE BUILD.

LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD,
YORKSHIRE.

MATT. xvii. 4.

METHINKS it is good to be here,

If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom?

Nor Elias, nor Moses appear,

But the shadows of eve, that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to ambition? Oh, no!

Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For see! they would fix him below,

In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey!

To beauty? Ah, no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before

Nor knows the foul worm, that he frets

The skin which but yesterday fools could adore For the smoothness it held, and the tint which it

wore.

Shall we build to the purple of pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, But the long winding sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To riches? alas! 'tis in vain,

Who hid, in their turns have been hid,

The treasures are squander'd again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,

But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin lid.

To the pleasures which mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute at their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here!

Shall we build to affection and love? Ah, no! they have wither'd and died,

Or fled with the spirit above.

Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted and none have replied!

Unto sorrow? the dead cannot grieve, Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve!

Ah! sweetly they slumber; nor hope, love, nor fear; Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here!

Unto death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfill'd; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies.

HERBERT KNOWLES.

LUTHER'S HYMN.

'Tis not too hard, too high an aim,
Secure thy part in Christ to claim;
The sensual instinct to control,
And warm with purer fires the soul.
Nature will raise up all her strife,
Foe to the flesh-abasing life,
Loth in a Saviour's death to share,
Her daily cross compell'd to bear;
But grace omnipotent at length
Shall arm the saint with saving strength;
Through the sharp war with aids attend,
And his long conflict sweetly end.

Act but the infant's gentle part,
Give up to love thy willing heart;
No fondest parent's tender breast

Yearns, like thy God's, to make thee blest;