The Christian Year | Page 5

own
marriage was childless.
The power of Keble's verse lies in its truth. A faithful and pure nature,
strong in home affections, full of love and reverence for all that is of
heaven in our earthly lot, strives for the full consecration of man's life
with love and faith. There is no rare gift of genius. Keble is not in
subtlety of thought or of
expression another George Herbert, or
another Henry Vaughan. But his voice is not the less in unison with
theirs, for every note is true, and wins us by its purity. His also are
melodies of the everlasting chime.
"And be ye sure that Love can bless
E'en in this crowded loneliness,

Where ever moving myriads seem to say,
Go--thou art nought to us,
nor we to thee--away!"
"There are in this loud stunning tide
Of human care and crime,
With whom the melodies abide
Of the everlasting chime;
Who carry music in their heart
Through dusky lane and wrangling mart,
Plying their daily task with
busier feet,
Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat."
With a peal, then, of such music let us ring in the New Year for our
Library; and for our lives.
January 1, 1887. H. M.
DEDICATION.

When in my silent solitary walk,
I sought a strain not all unworthy Thee,
My heart, still ringing with
wild worldly talk,
Gave forth no note of holier minstrelsy.
Prayer is the secret, to myself I said,
Strong supplication must call down the charm,
And thus with untuned
heart I feebly prayed,
Knocking at Heaven's gate with earth-palsied arm.
Fountain of Harmony! Thou Spirit blest,
By whom the troubled waves of earthly sound
Are gathered into
order, such as best
Some high-souled bard in his enchanted round
May compass, Power divine! Oh, spread Thy wing,
Thy dovelike wing that makes confusion fly,
Over my dark, void
spirit, summoning
New worlds of music, strains that may not die.
Oh, happiest who before thine altar wait,
With pure hands ever holding up on high
The guiding Star of all who
seek Thy gate,
The undying lamp of heavenly Poesy.
Too weak, too wavering, for such holy task
Is my frail arm, O Lord; but I would fain
Track to its source the

brightness, I would bask
In the clear ray that makes Thy pathway plain.
I dare not hope with David's harp to chase
The evil spirit from the troubled breast;
Enough for me if I can find
such grace
To listen to the strain, and be at rest.
THE CHRISTIAN YEAR.
MORNING
His compassions fail not. They are new every morning. Lament. iii. 22,
23.
Hues of the rich unfolding morn,
That, ere the glorious sun be born,

By some soft touch invisible
Around his path are taught to swell; -
Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay,
That dancest forth at opening
day,
And brushing by with joyous wing,
Wakenest each little leaf to
sing; -
Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam,
By which deep grove and tangled
stream
Pay, for soft rains in season given,
Their tribute to the genial
heaven; -
Why waste your treasures of delight
Upon our thankless, joyless sight;

Who day by day to sin awake,
Seldom of Heaven and you partake?
Oh, timely happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!

Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things
new!
New every morning is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove;


Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and
power, and thought.
New mercies, each returning day,
Hover around us while we pray;

New perils past, new sins forgiven,
New thoughts of God, new hopes
of Heaven.
If on our daily course our mind
Be set to hallow all we find,
New
treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.
Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be,
As more of Heaven in each
we see:
Some softening gleam of love and prayer
Shall dawn on
every cross and care.
As for some dear familiar strain
Untired we ask, and ask again,

Ever, in its melodious store,
Finding a spell unheard before;
Such is the bliss of souls serene,
When they have sworn, and stedfast
mean,
Counting the cost, in all t' espy
Their God, in all themselves
deny.
Oh, could we learn that sacrifice,
What lights would all around us rise!

How would our hearts with wisdom talk
Along Life's dullest,
dreariest walk!
We need not bid, for cloistered cell,
Our neighbour and our work
farewell,
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high
For sinful man
beneath the sky:
The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to
ask;
Room to deny ourselves; a road
To bring us daily nearer God.
Seek we no more; content with these,
Let present Rapture, Comfort,
Ease,
As Heaven shall bid them, come and go:-
The secret this of
Rest below.

Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love
Fit us for perfect Rest above;
And
help us, this and every day,
To live more nearly as we pray.
EVENING
Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent.--St.
Luke xxiv.