How the chain may lengthen,

None of us can say,
But we know it reaches
From earth's lowliest one
To the shining seraph,
Throned beyond the sun.

Hand in hand with angels!

Blessed so to be!
Helped are all the helpers;
Giving light, they see.
He who aids another

Strengthens more than one; Sinking earth he grapples

To the great white throne.

LUCY LARCOM.

ANGELIC GUIDANCE.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, the mtellectual leader in the Tractarian movement, as Pusey was the spiritual and Keble the poetical leader, was born in London, Feb 21, 1801, and graduated with honor at Trinity College, Oxford. He became a clergyman of the Church of England, but in 1845 was received into the Roman Catholic communion. In 1879 he was made a cardinal. His numerous writings have exerted a great influence upon the present generation. His prose is often semi poetic

ARE these the tracks of some unearthly friend, His footprints, and his vesture-skirts of light, Who, as I talk with men, confirms aright Their sympathetic words, or deeds that blend With my hid thought; or stoops him to attend My doubtful-pleading grief; or blunts the might

Of ill I see not; or in dreams of night Figures the scope, in which what is will end? Were I Christ's own, then fitly might I call That vision real; for to the thoughtful mind That walks with him, he half unveils his face; But, when on earth-stained souls such tokens fall,

These dare not claim as theirs what there

they find,

Yet, not all hopeless, eye his boundless grace. JOHN HENRY NEWMAN,

WHITCHURCH, Dec. 3, 1832.

MICHAEL THE ARCHANGEL.

A STATUETTE.

I.

My white archangel, with thy steadfast eyes Beholding all this empty ghost-filled room, Thy clasped hands resting on the sword of doom,

Thy firm, close lips, not made for human sighs

Michael, the leader of the hosts of God,
Who warred with Satan for the body of him
Whom, living, God had loved, if cherubim
With cherubim contended for one clod
Of human dust, for forty years that trod
The gloomy desert of heaven's chastisement,
Are there not ministering angels sent
To battle with the devils that roam abroad,
Clutching our living souls? The living, still
The living, they shall praise thee!"— let some
great

Invisible spirit enter in and fill

The howling chambers of hearts desolate; With looks like thine, O Michael, strong and wise,

My white archangel with the steadfast eyes! The Author of “ John Halifax, Gentleman."

HYMN TO MY GUARDIAN ANGEL FOR CHILDREN.

This piece is frequently reprinted with alterations and with the omission of the seventh, eleventh, and twelfth stanzas. It is made to begin, "Dear Jesus, ever at my side."

DEAR Angel! ever at my side,

How loving must thou be

To leave thy home in heaven to guard
A little child like me!

Thy beautiful and shining face
I see not, though so near;

The sweetness of thy soft low voice
I am too deaf to hear.

I cannot feel thee touch my hand
With pressure light and mild,
To check me, as my mother did
When I was but a child.

But I have felt thee in my thoughts
Fighting with sin for me;

And when my heart loves God, I know
The sweetness is from thee.

And when, dear Spirit! I kneel down Morning and night to prayer. Something there is within my heart Which tells me thou art there.

Yes! when I pray, thou prayest too—
Thy prayer is all for me;

But when I sleep, thou sleepest not,
But watchest patiently.

But most of all I feel thee near,
When, from the good priest's feet,
I go absolved, in fearless love,
Fresh toils and cares to meet.

Ah me! how lovely they must be
Whom God has glorified;
Yet one

of them, O sweetest thought!

Is ever at my side.

And thou in life's last hour wilt bring
A fresh supply of grace,
And afterwards wilt let me kiss
Thy beautiful bright face.

Then for thy sake, dear Angel! now
More humble will I be :

But I am weak, and when I fall,

Oh, weary not for me:

Oh, weary not, but love me still,

For Mary's sake, thy Queen;
She never tired of me, though I
Her worst of sons have been.

She will reward thee with a smile;
Thou know'st what it is worth!
For Mary's smiles each day convert
The hardest hearts on earth.

Then love me, love me, Angel dear!
And I will love thee more;

And help me when my soul is cast
Upon the eternal shore.

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

He guides, and near him they Follow delighted; for he makes them go Where dwells eternal May,

And heavenly roses blow,

967

Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, And fountains of delight;

And where his feet have stood, Springs up, along the way, their tender food.

And when in the mid skies,

The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,

Reposing as he lies,

With all his flock around,

He witches the still air with numerous sound.

From his sweet lute flow forth Immortal harmonies, of power to still All passions born of earth, And draw the ardent will Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.

Might but a little part,

A wandering breath, of that high melody
Descend into my heart,
And change it till it be

Transformed and swallowed up, O love! in thee:

Ah! then my soul should know, Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day; And from this place of woe Released, should take its way

To mingle with thy flock, and never stray!

LUIS PONCE DE LEON. Translated by
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED.

REGION of life and light!

Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er!

Nor frost nor heat may blight,
Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore,
Yielding thy blessed fruits forevermore!

There, without crook or sling,

Walks the Good Shepherd; blossoms white and red

Round his meek temples cling;
And, to sweet pastures led,

His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed.

HEAVEN'S MAGNIFICENCE.

WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MUHLENBERG, an Episcopal clergyman and a practical philanthropist of the noblest type, was born in Philadelphia, Oct 1, 1796, and died in May, 1877. Among his monuments are St. Luke's Hospital, New York, of which he was for years the superintendent and pastor, and St. Johnland, on Long Island.

SINCE o'er thy footstool here below
Such radiant gems are strown,
Oh, what magnificence must glow,

My God, about thy throne!
So brilliant here these drops of light,
There the full ocean rolls, how bright!

If night's blue curtain of the sky, With thousand stars inwrought,

JOHN NEWTON, "once an infidel and libertine," as he wrote of himself, trained by his mother, before her early death, for the ministry, was left to become a profligate and a dealer in slaves in Africa, and was converted in a severe storm on a voyage homewards from the scenes of his debauchery. In 1764 he entered the ministry of the Church of England, and was for a time curate of Olney and the friend of Cowper. In 1779 he became rector of a church in London. His hymns were, as he said, the fruit and expression of his experience, but as he wrote some of them to meet the requirements of public worship, they are not all poems, though they have been very useful. Newton was born in London in 1725, and died Dec. 21, 1807.

GLORIOUS things of thee are spoken,
Zion, city of our God!

He, whose word cannot be broken,
Formed thee for his own abode :
On the Rock of Ages founded,

What can shake thy sure repose?
With salvation's wall surrounded,
Thou may'st smile at all thy foes.

See, the streams of living waters,

Springing from eternal love,
Well supply thy sons and daughters,
And all fears of want remove :
Who can faint while such a river

Ever flows their thirst t' assuage?
Grace, which like the Lord, the giver,
Never fails from age to age.

Round each habitation hovering, See the cloud and fire appear, For a glory and a covering, Showing that the Lord is near.

Thus deriving from their banner

Light by night, and shade by day, Safe they feed upon the manna Which he gives them when they pray.

Blest inhabitants of Zion,

Washed in the Redeemer's blood! Jesus, whom their souls rely on,

Makes them kings and priests to God. 'Tis his love his people raises

Over self to reign as kings,

And as priests, his solemn praises
Each for a thank-offering brings.

Saviour, if of Zion's city

I through grace a member am, Let the world deride or pity,

I will glory in thy name. Fading is the worldling's pleasure, All his boasted pomp and show; Solid joys and lasting treasure None but Zion's children know. JOHN NEWTON.

1779.

HEAVEN.

THAT clime is not like this dull clime of ours; All, all is brightness there;

A sweeter influence breathes around its flow

ers,

And a benigner air.

No calm below is like that calm above,
No region here is like that realm of love:
Earth's softest spring ne'er shed so soft a light,
Earth's brightest summer never shone so
bright.

That sky is not like this sad sky of ours,
Tinged with earth's change and care;
No shadow dims it, and no rain-cloud lowers;
No broken sunshine there:
One everlasting stretch of azure pours
Its stainless splendor o'er those sinless
shores ;

For there Jehovah shines with heavenly ray,
And Jesus reigns, dispensing endless day.

The dwellers there are not like those of earth,

No mortal stain they bear,And yet they seem of kindred blood and birth; Whence and how came they there? Earth was their native soil; from sin and shame,

Through tribulation, they to glory came;

And none shall ever die!

Where is that land, oh, where?,
For I would hasten there!

Tell me, I fain would go,

For I am wearied with a heavy woe!
The beautiful have left me all alone:
The true, the tender, from my path hath gone!

Oh, guide me with thy hand,
If thou dost know the land,
For I am burdened with oppressive care,
And I am weak and fearful with despair!

Where is it? Tell me where !
Thou that art kind and gentle, tell me where !

Friend, thou must trust in him who trod before

The desolate paths of life;

Must bear in meekness, as he meekly bore,
Sorrow, and pain, and strife!
Think how the Son of God

These thorny paths hath trod;
Think how he longed to go,

Yet tarried out for thee the appointed woe;
Think of his weariness in places dim,

When no man comforted or cared for him!

Think of the blood-like sweat

With which his brow was wet,

Yet how he prayed, unaided and alone,

In that great agony, "Thy will be done!"
Friend, do not thou despair,

Christ from his heaven of heavens will hear

thy prayer.

JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND.

Translator unknown.

THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN.

HIGH thoughts!

They come and go,

969

Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden,

While round me flow

The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden:

When the corn's rustle on the ear doth

come

When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum

When the stars, dew-drops of the summer sky, Watch over all with soft and loving eyeWhile the leaves quiver

By the lone river,

And the quiet heart

From depths doth call

And garners all

Earth grows a shadow

Forgotten whole,

And heaven lives

High thoughts!

In the blessed soul!

In moments when the soul is dim and darkened;

They come to bless,

After the vanities to which we hearkened: When weariness bath come upon the spirit (Those hours of darkness which we all inherit)

Bursts there not through a glint of warm sunshine,

A winged thought which bids us not repine?

In joy and gladness,

In mirth and sadness,

Come signs and tokens;

Life's angel brings,
Upon its wings,

Those bright communings

The soul doth keep

Those thoughts of heaven

So pure and deep!

ROBERT NICOLL.

TO HEAVEN.

GREAT and good God, can I not think of thee,
But it must straight my melancholy be?
Is it interpreted in me disease,

That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease?

Oh, be thou witness, that the reins dost know
And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,
And judge me after, if I dare pretend
To aught but grace, or aim at other end.

As thou art all, so be thou all to me,
First, midst, and last, converted one and three,
My faith, my hope, my love: and in this state,
My judge, my witness, and my advocate.

Where have I been this while exiled from thee,
And whither rapt, now thou but stoop'st to me?
Dwell, dwell here still. O being everywhere,
How can I doubt to find thee ever here?

"For the hope that is laid up for you in heaven."— Col. i. 5 NOR eye, ear, thought, can take the height To which my song is taking flight;

Yet raised on humble wing,
My guess of heaven I'll sing;
'Tis love's reward, and love is fired
By guessing at the bliss desired.

Guess then at saint's eternal lot,
By due considering what 't is not;
No misery, want, or care,

No death, no darkness there,

No troubles, storms, sighs, groans, or tears,
No injury, pains, sickness, fears.

There souls no disappointments meet,
No vanities the choice to cheat,

Nothing that can defile,

No hypocrite, no guile,

No need of prayer, or what implies,

Or absence or vacuities.

There no ill conscience gnaws the breast,
No tempters holy souls infest,

No curse, no weeds, no toil,
No errors to embroil.
No lustful thought can enter in,
Or possibility of sin.

From all vexations here below,
The region of sin, death, and woe.
Song, to your utmost stress
Now elevate your guess,
Sing what in sacred lines you read,
Of bliss for pious souls decreed.

They dwell in pure ecstatic light,
Of God triune have blissful sight,
Of fontal love, who gave
God filial, man to save :
Of Jesus' love, who death sustained,
By which the saints their glory gained;