From the German of GERHARD TERSTEEGEN.

Translation of JOHN WESLEY.

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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.

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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.

  Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame,
    Though once they would have joyed my carnal sense: 
  I shudder not to bear a hated name,
    Wanting all wealth, myself my sole defence. 
  But give me, Lord, eyes to behold the truth;
    A seeing sense that knows the eternal right;
  A heart with pity filled, and gentlest ruth;
    A manly faith that makes all darkness light: 
  Give me the power to labor for mankind;
    Make me the mouth of such as cannot speak;
  Eyes let me be to groping men, and blind;
    A conscience to the base; and to the weak
  Let me be hands and feet; and to the foolish, mind;
  And lead still further on such as thy kingdom seek.

THEODORE PARKER.

* * * * *

ASCRIPTION.

  O thou who hast beneath Thy hand
  The dark foundations of the land,—­
  The motion of whose ordered thought
  An instant universe hath wrought,—­

  Who hast within Thine equal heed
  The rolling sun, the ripening seed,
  The azure of the speedwell’s eye. 
  The vast solemnities of sky,—­

  Who hear’st no less the feeble note
  Of one small bird’s awakening throat,
  Than that unnamed, tremendous chord
  Arcturus sounds before his Lord,—­