And they that fall though but a little space
  Fall only in His hand,
And with their lives they pave the fearful place
  Whereon the pillars stand. 
God treads no more the winepress of His wrath
  As once He did alone,
He bids us share with Him the perilous path
  The altar and the throne. 
When from the iron clash and stormy stress
  Which mark His wondrous way,
Shines forth all haloed round with holiness
  The rose of perfect day.

ENGLAND.

By Eliza cook.

My heart is pledg’d in wedded faith to England’s “Merrie Isle,”
I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile;
I’m happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade,
I’m glad and proud amid the crowd that throng its mart of trade;
I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne,
Where every flag that comes ’ere now has lower’d to our own. 
Look round the globe and tell me can ye find more blazon’d names,
Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thames?

My soul is link’d right tenderly to every shady copse,
I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops;
The citron tree or spicy grove for me would never yield,
A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field. 
Our songsters too, oh! who shall dare to breathe one slighting word,
Their plumage dazzles not—­yet say can sweeter strains be heard? 
Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush,
Give me old England’s nightingale, its robin, and its thrush.

I’d freely rove through Tempe’s vale, or scale the giant Alp,
Where roses list the bulbul’s late, or snow-wreaths crown the scalp;
I’d pause to hear soft Venice streams plash back to boatman’s oar,
Or hearken to the Western flood in wild and falling roar;
I’d tread the vast of mountain range, or spot serene and flower’d,
I ne’er could see too many of the wonders God has shower’d;
Yet though I stood on fairest earth, beneath the bluest heaven,
Could I forget our summer sky, our Windermere and Devon?

I’d own a brother in the good and brave of any land,
Nor would I ask his clime or creed before I gave my hand;
Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know,
And little reck “the place of birth,” or colour of the brow;
Yet though I hail’d a foreign name among the first and best,
Our own transcendent stars of fame would rise within my breast;
I’d point to hundreds who have done the most ’ere done by man,
And cry “There’s England’s glory scroll,” do better if you can!

A SONG FOR AUSTRALIA

GOD BLESS THE DEAR OLD LAND,

By William Cox Bennet.