'T is mercy all that thou hast brought My mind to seek her peace in thee. Yet while I seek but find thee not No peace my wand'ring soul shall see. Oh! when shall all my wand'rings end, And all my steps to-thee-ward tend? Is there a thing beneath the sun That strives with thee my heart to share? Ah! tear it thence and reign alone, The Lord of every motion there. Then shall my heart from earth be free, When it has found repose in thee. Oh! hide this self from me, that I No more, but Christ in me, may live. My vile affections crucify, Nor let one darling lust survive. In all things nothing may I see, Nothing desire or seek but thee. O Love, thy sovereign aid impart, To save me from low-thoughted care; Chase this self-will through all my heart, Through all its latent mazes there. Make me thy duteous child, that I Ceaseless may Abba, Father, cry. Ah! no; ne'er will I backward turn: Thine wholly, thine alone I am. Thrice happy he who views with scorn Earth's toys, for thee his constant flame. Oh! help, that I may never move From the blest footsteps of thy love. Each moment draw from earth away My heart, that lowly waits thy call. Speak to my inmost soul, and say, "I am thy Love, thy God, thy All." To feel thy power, to hear thy voice, To taste thy love is all my choice. From the German of GERHARD TERSTEEGEN. Translation of JOHN WESLEY. * * * * * IN A LECTURE-ROOM. Away, haunt thou not me, Thou vain Philosophy! Little hast thou bestead, Save to perplex the head, And leave the spirit dead. Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go. While from the secret treasure-depths below, Fed by the skyey shower, And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high, Wisdom at once, and Power, Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly? Why labor at the dull mechanic oar, When the fresh breeze is blowing, And the strong current flowing, Right onward to the Eternal Shore? ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. * * * * * FROM THE RECESSES OF A LOWLY SPIRIT. From the recesses of a lowly spirit, Our humble prayer ascends; O Father! hear it. Upsoaring on the wings of awe and meekness, Forgive its weakness! We see thy hand,--it leads us, it supports us; We hear thy voice,--it counsels and it courts us; And then we turn away; and still thy kindness Forgives our blindness. O, how long-suffering, Lord! but thou delightest To win with love the wandering: thou invited, By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors, Man from his errors. Father and Saviour! plant within each bosom The seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal, And spring eternal. SIR JOHN BOWRING. * * * * * THE HIGHER GOOD.