Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom. An angel writing in a book of gold: Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so." Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,-- And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! LEIGH HUNT. * * * * * LOVE. If suddenly upon the street My gracious Saviour I should meet, And he should say, "As I love thee, What love hast thou to offer me?" Then what could this poor heart of mine Dare offer to that heart divine? His eye would pierce my outward show, His thought my inmost thought would know; And if I said, "I love thee, Lord," He would not heed my spoken word, Because my daily life would tell If verily I loved him well. If on the day or in the place Wherein he met me face to face, My life could show some kindness done, Some purpose formed, some work begun For his dear sake, then it were meet Love's gift to lay at Jesus' feet. CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON. IV. SABBATH: WORSHIP: CREED. * * * * * SUNDAY MORNING BELLS. From the near city comes the clang of bells: Their hundred jarring diverse tones combine In one faint misty harmony, as fine As the soft note yon winter robin swells. What if to Thee in thine infinity These multiform and many-colored creeds Seem but the robe man wraps as masquers' weeds Round the one living truth them givest him--Thee? What if these varied forms that worship prove, Being heart-worship, reach thy perfect ear But as a monotone, complete and clear, Of which the music is, through Christ's name, love? Forever rising in sublime increase To "Glory in the highest,--on earth peace"? DINAH M. MULOCK CRAIK. * * * * * SABBATH HYMN ON THE MOUNTAINS. Praise ye the Lord! Not in the temple of shapeliest mould, Polished with marble and gleaming with gold, Piled upon pillars of slenderest grace, But here in the blue sky's luminous face, Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the Lord! Not where the organ's melodious wave Dies 'neath the rafters that narrow the nave, But here with the free wind's wandering sweep, Here with the billow that booms from the deep, Praise ye the Lord!