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WHITSUNDAY.

No. II.

R. H.

SPIRIT of Truth ! on this Thy day

To Thee for help we cry,
To guide us through the dreary way

Of dark mortality!
We ask not, Lord ! Thy cloven flame,

Or tongues of various tone;
But long Thy praises to proclaim

With fervour in our own.
We mourn not that prophetic skill

Is found on earth no more ;
Enough for us to trace Thy will

In Scripture's sacred lore. We neither have nor seek the

power Ill demons to controul ; But Thou, in dark temptation's hour,

Shalt chase them from the soul.

No heavenly harpings soothe our ear,

No mystic dreams we share;
Yet hope to feel Thy comfort near,

And bless Thee in our prayer.
When tongues shall cease, and power decay,

And knowledge empty prove,
Do Thou Thy trembling servants stay

With Faith, with Hope, with Love !

TRINITY SUNDAY.

R. H.

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty !

Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee ; Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty !

God in three persons, blessed Trinity !

Holy, holy, holy ! all the saints adore Thee,

Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea; Cherubim and seraphim falling down before Thee,

Which wert and art, and evermore shalt be!

Holy, holy, holy! though the darkness hide Thee,

Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory may not see, Only Thou art holy, there is none beside Thee,

Perfect in power, in love, and purity!

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty !

All Thy works shall praise Thy name in earth and sky

and sea ;

Holy, holy, holy! merciful and mighty !

God in three persons, blessed Trinity!

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

No. I.

R. H.

Room for the Proud ! Ye sons of clay From far his sweeping pomp survey, Nor, rashly curious, clog the way

His chariot wheels before !

Lo! with what scorn his lofty eye
Glances o'er Age and Poverty,
And bids intruding Conscience fly

Far from his palace door!

Room for the Proud ! but slow the feet That bear his coffin down the street : And dismal seems his winding-sheet,

Who purple lately wore !

Ah! where must now his spirit fly.
In naked, trembling agony?
Or how shall he for mercy cry,

Who shew'd it not before !

Room for the Proud! in ghastly state The lords of Hell his coming wait, And flinging wide the dreadful gate

That shuts to ope no more.

“ Lo here with us the seat,” they cry, “ For him who mock'd at Poverty, And bade intruding Conscience fly

Far from his palace door!”

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FIRST SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

No. II.

R. H.

The feeble pulse, the gasping breath,

The clenched teeth, the glazed eye, Are these thy sting, thou dreadful Death?

O Grave, are these thy victory?

The mourners by our parting bed,

The wife, the children weeping nigh, The dismal pageant of the dead,

These, these are not thy victory!

But, from the much-loved world to part,

Our lust untamed, our spirit high, All nature struggling at the heart,

Which, dying, feels it dare not die! To dream through life a gaudy dream

Of pride and pomp and luxury,
Till waken'd by the nearer gleam

Of burning, boundless agony;
To meet o'er-soon our angry King,

Whose love we past unheeded by;
Lo this, O Death, thy deadliest sting!

O grave, and this thy victory!

O Searcher of the secret heart,

Who deign’d for sinful man to die ! Restore us ere the spirit part,

Nor give to hell the victory!

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