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My trembling soul and Thou, my God,
Alone are there; Thy staff and rod
Shall comfort me. O gentle Dove,
How much Thy holy Law I love !

My lamp and light
In the dark night.

Rev. R. M. M‘CHEYNE.

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WONDER not at those, who first
Forsook the crowded walks of men,

And in the cloister and the glen,
Their days in contemplation nurst;

The monk, the lonely eremite,

Whose lives to solitude were given,

That naught of earth might cloud the heaven To which they journeyed from their sight.

In rocky cave, in convent cell,

They hid,—their fear, lest aught should win

Their steps again to walk, with sin, The smooth, enticing path to hell.



Yet not remote from human ill,

Nor shut secluded from the strife,

The Christian truly lives his life Or does the Master's hallowed will ;

But in the tumult and the throng,

Where hunger, want, and moans distress,

A voice to soothe, a hand to bless, With humble toil he moves along;

Nor turns from common tasks aside,

Nor fears to face temptation's power,

But trusts in every trying hour, To One in heaven to safely guide.

Be mine within the Master's field

The round of Christian work to lead,

That faith made manifest by deed, May fruitage to the gleaning yield.

Yet would I not those monks condemn,

Nor blame their still secluded years,

Their tree an ample fruitage bears, And Jesus had a work for them.



They nursed the sick, they fed the poor,

They mused, they wrote with careful pen,

Nor closed their hearts to pity when The houseless stranger sought their door.

And through long mediæval night,

That wrapt the nations like a pall;

Sheltered by many a convent wall, Still burned unquenched the living light.

Not ours to mete their life's award,

Their life,-that age !--perchance 'twas best ;

Nor without hope their ashes rest,
Till that great day which brings the Lord.

But in these days of restless mind,

When to and fro the many run,

And knowledge circles with the sun, My labour lies among mankind.

Those tasks my Lord will have me do,

Must I assiduously fulfil,

Making life beautiful and still, For pattern, keeping Him in view.

Rev. W. T. MATSON.

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(HOU hast been call’d to God, rebellious heart,

By many an awful and neglected sign,

By many a joy which came and did depart, Mocking thy weeping, frail worm that thou art,

For that thou didst not fear to call them thine.

Thou hast been call's, when o'er thy trembling head

The storm in all its fury hath swept by ; When the loud ocean rose within its bed, And whelmed, with greedy roar, the struggling dead,

Who never more may greet thine anxious eye.

Thou hast been call’d, when, beautiful and bright,

The calm, still sunshine round about thee lay; And, in thine ecstasy, thy spirit's flight Hath soared unto those realms of life and light,

Where thy God's presence beams eternal day.

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