The tyrants of the plain Their savage chase give o'er,-- No more they rend the slain, And thirst for blood no more; But infant hands Fierce tigers stroke, And lions yoke In flowery bands. O, when, Almighty Lord! Shall these glad things arise, To verify thy word, And bless our wandering eyes? That earth may raise, With all its tongues, United songs Of ardent praise. PHILIP DODDRIDGE. * * * * * THE WORD. O Word of God incarnate, O Wisdom from on high, O Truth unchanged, unchanging, O Light of our dark sky; We praise thee for the radiance That from the hallowed page, A lantern to our footsteps, Shines on from age to age. The Church from thee, her Master, Received the gift divine; And still that light she lifteth O'er all the earth to shine. It is the golden casket Where gems of truth are stored; It is the heaven-drawn picture Of, thee, the living Word. It floateth like a banner Before God's host unfurled; It shineth like a beacon Above the darkling world; It is the chart and compass That o'er life's surging sea, Mid mists and rocks and quicksands, Still guide, O Christ, to thee. Oh, make thy Church, dear Saviour, A lamp of burnished gold, To bear before the nations Thy true light, as of old. Oh, teach thy wandering pilgrims By this their path to trace, Till, clouds and darkness ended, They see thee face to face. WILLIAM WALSHAM HOW. * * * * * THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. The chimes, the chimes of Motherland, Of England green and old. That out from fane and ivied tower A thousand years have tolled; How glorious must their music be As breaks the hallowed day, And calleth with a seraph's voice A nation up to pray! Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, Sweet tales of olden time; And ring a thousand memories At vesper, and at prime! At bridal and at burial, For cottager and king, Those chimes, those glorious Christian chimes, How blessedly they ring! Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, Upon a Christmas morn. Outbreaking as the angels did, For a Redeemer born! How merrily they call afar, To cot and baron's hall, With holly decked and mistletoe, To keep the festival! The chimes of England, how they peal From tower and Gothic pile, Where hymn and swelling anthem fill The dim cathedral aisle; Where windows bathe the holy light On priestly heads that falls, And stains the florid tracery Of banner-dighted walls! And then, those Easter bells, in spring, Those glorious Easter chimes! How loyally they hail thee round, Old Queen of holy times! From hill to hill like sentinels, Responsively they cry, And sing the rising of the Lord, From vale to mountain high.