So, Lord, when that last morning breaks Which shrouds in darkness earth and skies, May it on us, low bending here,

Arrayed in joyful light arise!

To God the Father glory be,

And to his sole-begotten Son;
The same, O Holy Ghost! to thee,
While everlasting ages run.

Ambrosian Hymn. Translated by
EDWARD CASWALL.

MORNING HYMN.

"Ecce jam noctis tenuatur umbra."

GREGORY THE GREAT was born in Rome about the year 554. He took the monastic habit, and loved retirement, but in 590 the office of Pope was forced upon him. His life was full of trials and useful work. It was he who sent Augustine to England to convert the Anglo-Saxons, and made him the first Archbishop of Canterbury. He patronized church music, and we are indebted to him for the Gregorian Chant. He died in 604, exhausted by trials and labors. The hymn" Veni Creator Spiritus" is by some attributed to Gregory.

Lo, fainter now lie spread the shades of night, And upward shoot the trembling gleams of

morn;

Suppliant we bend before the Lord of light, And pray at early dawn,

That his sweet charity may all our sin
Forgive, and make our miseries to cease;
May grant us health, grant us the gift divine
Of everlasting peace.

Father Supreme! this grace on us confer;
And thou, O Son, by an eternal birth,!
With thee, coequal Spirit Comforter!

'Whose glory fills the earth.

GREGORY THE GREAT. Translated by
EDWARD CASWALL.

MIDDAY.

WHEN at midday my task I ply
With laboring hand or watchful eye,
I need the timely aid of prayer
To guard my soul from worldly care.
Thou, Lord, didst consecrate this hour
To mind us of thy saving power,
Thy living water's heavenly spell,
The mystery of Jacob's well.

There, about noon, with toil oppressed,
Feebly thy voice its plaint expressed:
"Give me to drink!" O wondrous woe!
God thirsts, from whom all blessings flow!

He needed not, by whom we live,
And only asked that he might give:
A mightier want he felt within,
The thirst to save a soul from sin.

Lord, in our pilgrimage of grace
Thy weary footsteps oft we trace,
And in the inner man renew
The grief thy sacred body knew.

Our spirits faint upon the way,
We bear the burden of the day:
'Tis then for strength to thee we turn,
Sit at thy feet, and wisdom learn.

We ask of thee the gift of God,
Pure water from the vital flood,
To cure our feverish thirst of sin,
A well of water deep within.

'T was at midday, on blood intent,
Saul to Damascus raging went:
A light from heaven upon him came,
Putting that midday sun to shame.

The sudden glorious burst appalls;
Dashed to the earth he headlong falls ;
A Voice reproves, a Form appears;
Aghast he sees and trembling hears.

Now streams that light with mellowed glow
Around our path, where'er we go;
Inviting us at noon to raise

Our hearts to God in prayer and praise.

And calmly now we hear that word;
It bids us rise and meet the Lord:
What hour he cometh, none can say;
At dead of night, or at midday.

Oh, rise thou then, and strive, my soul,
To reach the beatific goal!
Thy every nerve and sinew strain,
The crown of glory to obtain!

For see, in all this noontide heat,
How worldlings labor for the meat
That perishes and comes to naught,
Like shadow, when we think 't is caught.

And wilt thou then refuse thy pains
For heaven's imperishable gains?
Or canst thou grudge thy utmost toil
For treasures none can steal or spoil?
The sun has its meridian past;
Soon will its beams oblique be cast,
And twilight pale will rise to enshroud
Their radiance in the western cloud.

Yet, for a time, 't is bright and glad ;
But coming night is dark and sad:
The day to man for toil was given,
And none at night can work for heaven.

Sun of my soul, thyself display! Quicken me, Lord, and cheer my way! Till, borne upon thy healing wing, Upward I soar thy praise to sing.

E'en now, when far from thy blest light,
At morn and eve, at noon and night,
I tune my heart betimes to join
Where angels in thy presence shine.

Yet angels, in their loftiest song,

Fail in their flight, and do thee wrong;
Like as their veiled adoring face
Tells of a glory none can trace!

EVENING HYMN.

"Rerum Deus tenax vigor."

287

O THOU true Life of all that live!
Who dost, unmoved, all motion sway;
Who dost the morn and evening give,

And through its changes guide the day:

Thy light upon our evening pour,

So may our souls no sunset see; But death to us an open door

To an eternal morning be.

Father of mercies, hear our cry!

Hear us, O sole-begotten Son!
Who, with the Holy Ghost most high,
Reignest while endless ages run.

Ambrosian Hymn. Translated by
EDWARD CASWALL.

A CHAMBER HYMN.

AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE TOPLADY, a holy and devout clergyman of the Church of England, was born in Surrey, in 1740. He was educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Dublin, and became a strenuous supporter of Calvinistic views. He died Aug. 11, 1777Some of

his hymns especially "Rock of Ages," are great favorites. The following is generally made to begin with the fourth stanza, which is altered to "Inspirer and hearer of prayer."

WHAT though my frail eyelids refuse

Continual watching to keep,
And punctual as midnight renews,
Demand the refreshment of sleep;
A sovereign protector I have,
Unseen, yet forever at hand,
Unchangeably faithful to save,
Almighty to rule and command.

From evil secure, and its dread,
I rest, if my Saviour be nigh;
And songs his kind presence indeed
Shall in the night season supply.
His smiles and my comforts abound,
His grace as the dew shall descend;
And walls of salvation surround

The soul he delights to defend.
Kind author and ground of my hope,
Thee, thee for my God I avow,
My glad Eben-ezer set up,

And own thou hast helped me till now. I muse on the years that are past, Wherein my defence thou hast proved; Nor wilt thou relinquish at last A sinner so signally loved.

Beneficent hearer of prayer,

Thou feeder and guardian of thine,

My all to thy covenant care

I sleeping and waking resign.
If thou art my shield and my sun,
The night is no darkness to me;
And, fast as my moments roll on,

They bring me but nearer to thee.

Thy ministering spirits descend

To watch while thy saints are asleep; By day and by night they attend,

The heirs of salvation to keep. Bright seraphs, despatched from the throne, Repair to their stations assigned; And angels elect are sent down

To guard the elect of mankind.

Thy worship no interval knows;
Their fervor is still on the wing;
And while they protect my repose,
They chant to the praise of my King.
I, too, at the season ordained

Their chorus forever shall join,
And love and adore, without end,
Their faithful Creator and mine.

1776.

AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE TOPLADY.

EVENING.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE, son of a butcher and apprentice of a stocking-weaver, published a volume of poems in his eighteenth year, that attracted much attention and commanded the admiration of the poet Southey. He was born at Nottingham, March 21, 1785, and died from over-study, at Cambridge, Oct. 19, 1806.

O LORD, another day is flown ;
And we, a lonely band,

Are met once more before thy throne
To bless thy fostering hand.

And wilt thou lend a listening ear

To praises low as ours?

Thou wilt for thou dost love to hear

The song which meekness pours.

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign
As we before thee pray;

For thou didst bless the infant train,
And we are less than they.

Oh, let thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease;
And shed abroad in every heart
Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chastened, cleansed, entirely thine,
A flock by Jesus led,

The Sun of holiness shall shine

In glory on our head.

A pleasant incident is related of this hymn by Dr. Putnam in the "Singers and Songs of the Liberal Faith." A company of Bostonians, among whom was a daughter of Dr. Robbins, Mrs. Hill, were returning from England in a Cunard steamer. An aged Scotch Presbyterian minister and his wife were among the passengers. The party were singing hymns on deck at the close of a lovely Sabbath day, when the clergyman went to his state-room and brought a book of hymns and tunes to show them what he said was the sweetest hymn he knew, set to the sweetest tune. What was the Boston lady's surprise to hear him repeat the lines which her own father had written, "Lo! the day of rest declineth," and begin to sing " Bedford Street," a tune composed for the words by Mr. L. B. Barnes, President of the Handel and Haydn Society, and named for the author's own church, which was in Bedford Street, Boston.

Lo! the day of rest declineth,
Gather fast the shades of night;
May the Sun that ever shineth
Fill our souls with heavenly light.

Softly now the dew is falling;

Peace o'er all the scene is spread;
On his children, meekly calling,

Purer influence God will shed.

While thine ear of love addressing,
Thus our parting hymn we sing, -
Father, give thine evening blessing;
Fold us safe beneath thy wing.
CHANDLER ROBBINS, D. D.

THE EVENING CLOUD.

JOHN WILSON, better known as Christopher North, under which name he wrote for Blackwood's Magazine a series of papers entitled " Noctes Ambrosianæ," was born at Paisley, May 19, 1785, and died in Edinburgh, April 3, 1851.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun:
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on,
O'er the still radiance of the lake below;
Tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow:
Even in its very motion there was rest ;
While every breath of eve that chanced to

blow

Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is

given;