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THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS.

ND is there care in heaven? And is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move?
There is :-else much more wretched were
the case

Of men than beasts: but O the exceeding grace
Of Highest God! that loves His creatures so,
And all His works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels He sends to and fro,
To serve to wicked men, to serve his wicked foe!
How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succor us that succor want!
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant!
They for us fight, they watch, and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant;
And all for love, and nothing for reward;

O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard! EDMUND SPenser.

THE DYING SAVIOUR.

SACRED Head, now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down ; Now scornfully surrounded

With thorns, Thy only crown;

O sacred Head, what glory,
What bliss, till now was Thine!
Yet, though despised and gory,
I joy to call Thee mine.

O noblest brow and dearest,

In other days the world
All feared when Thou appearedst:
What shame on Thee is hurled!
How art Thou pale with auguish,.
With sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn!
What language shall I borrow,

To thank Thee, dearest Friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end!
O, make me Thine forever,
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never,
Outlive my love to Thee.

If I, a wretch, should leave Thee,
O Jesus, leave not me!

In faith may I receive Thee,
When death shall set me free.
When strength and comfort languish,
And I must hence depart,
Release me then from anguish,
By Thine own wounded heart.

Be near when I am dying,

O, show Thy cross to me! And for my succor flying,

Come, Lord, to set me free. These eyes new faith receiving, From Jesus shall not move; For he who dies believing

Dies safely-through Thy love.
PAUL GERHARDT.

FOR LOVE'S SAKE.

One of the most celebrated, and perhaps the finest, of all reli. gious edifices in the world, is the "Moslem Palace" called Taj Mahal. It was erected during the 17th century, by the Emperor Shah Jehan as a mausoleum for his favorite queen. The material is white marble, and the cost is said to have been over fifteen million dollars. The tombs of the Emperor and Queen are in the central hall.

YOU have read of the Moslem palace-
The marvelous fane that stands
On the banks of the distant Jumna,
The wonder of all the lands;

You have read of its marble splendors,
Its carvings of rare device,

Its domes and its towers that glisten
Like visions of paradise.

You have listened as one has told you
Of its pinnacles snowy-fair-
So pure that they seemed suspended
Like clouds in the crystal air;

Of the flow of its fountains falling
As softly as mourners' tears;
Of the lily and rose kept blooming
For over two hundred years;

Of the friezes of frost-like beauty,
The jewels that crust the wall,
The carvings that crown the archway,
The innermost shrine of all-

Where lies in her sculptured coffin,

(Whose chiselings mortal man
Hath never excelled,) the dearest

Of the loves of the Shah Jehan.
They read you the shining legends
Whose letters are set in gems,
On the walls of the sacred chamber
That sparkle like diadems.

And they tell you these letters, gleaming
Wherever the eye may look,

Are words of the Moslem prophet,
Are texts from his holy book.

And still as you heard, you questioned
Right wonderingly, as you must,
"Why rear such a palace, only

To shelter a woman's dust?"

Why rear it?-the Shah had promised

His beautiful Nourmahal

To do it because he loved her,

He loved her-and that was all!

So minaret, wall, and column,
And tower and dome above,
All tell of a sacred promise,
All utter one accent-LOVE.
You know of another temple,

A grander than Hindoo shrine,
The splendor of whose perfections
Is mystical, strange, divine.
So vast is its scale proportioned,
So lofty its turrets rise,

That the pile in its finished glory
Will reach to the very skies.

The lapse of the silent Kedron,
The roses of Sharon fair,
Gethsemane's sacred olives

And cedars are round it there.

And graved on its walls and pillars,

And cut in its crystal stone,

Are the words of our Prophet, sweeter
Than Islam's hath ever known-
Texts culled from the holy Gospel,
That comfort, refresh, sustain,
And shine with a rarer lustre
Than the gems of the Hindoo fane.
The plan of the temple, only

Its Architect understands;
And yet He accepts-(Oh, wonder!)
The helping of human hands!

And so, for the work's progression,
He is willing that great and small
Should bring Him their bits of carving,
So needed, to fill the wall.

Not one does the Master-Builder
Disdainfully cast away:

Why, even He takes the chippings,
We women have brought to-day!

Oh, not to the dead-to the living-
We rear on the earth He trod,

This fane to His lasting glory,

This church to the Christ of God!

Why labor and strive? We have promised

(And dare we the vow recall?) To do it because we love Him, We love Him-and that is all!

For over the Church's portal,

Each pillar and arch above, The Master has set one signet, And graven one watchword-LOVE. MARGARET J. PRESTON.

DIFFERENT MINDS.

OME murmur when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,

If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue;
And some with thankful love are filled
If but one streak of light,

One ray of God's good mercy, gild
The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task.

And all good things denied,
And hearts in poorest huts admire
How love has in their aid
(Love that not ever seems to tire)
Such rich provision made.

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

A DREAM OF THE UNIVERSE.

NTO the great vestibule of heaven, God called up a man from dreams, saying, "Come thou hither, and see the glory of my house." And, to the servants who stood around His throne, He said. "Take him, and undress him from his robes of flesh; cleanse his vision, and put a new breath into his nostrils; only touch not with any change his human heart -the heart that weeps and trembles."

It was done; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, the man stood ready for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at once they wheeled away into endless space. Sometimes, with solemn flight of angel wings, they fled through Saharas of darkness-through wildernesses of death, that divided the world of life; sometimes they swept over frontiers that were quickening under the prophetic motions from God.

Then, from a distance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a time through a sleepy film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them; they by unutterable pace to the light. In a moment, the rushing of planets was upon them; in a moment, the blazing of suns was around them.

Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were not revealed. On the right hand and on the left. towered mighty constellations, that by self-repetition and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways-horizontal, upright-rested, rose-at altitudes by spans that seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory the gates.

Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below; above was below-below was above, to the man stripped of gravitating body; depth was swallowed up in height insurmountable; height was swallowed up in

depth unfathomable. Suddenly, as thus they rode from infinite to infinite; suddenly, as thus they tilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose that systems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other heights and other depths, were coming-were nearing -were at hand.

Then the man sighed, and stopped, and shuddered, and wept. His overladen heart uttered itself in tears; and he said, “Angel, I will go no farther; for the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory of God. Let me lie down in the grave, and hide me from the persecutions of the Infinite; for end, I see, there is none."

And from all the listening stars that shone around, issued a choral cry, "The man speaks truly; end there "End is there is none that ever yet we heard of."

none?" the angel solemnly demanded: "Is there indeed no end, and is this the sorrow that kills you?" But no voice answered that he might answer himself. Then the angel threw up his glorious hands toward the heaven of heavens, saying, "End is there none to the universe of God! Lo, also there is no beginning!” JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

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The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for griet's o'erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set- but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh death!

We know when moons shall wane,
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain—
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest-

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh death! FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS.

E was of that stubborn crew

Of arrant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true church militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery,

And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire, and sword, and desolation
A godly, thorough reformation,
Which always must be carried on
And still be doing, never done;
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.
A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies ;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss,
More peevish, cross, and splenetic,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick;
That with more care keep holyday
The wrong than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclined to,
By damning those they have no mind to;
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipped God for spite;
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way,
and long another for.

SAMUEL BUTLER

CREATIVE POWER.

'HE spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim;

The unwearied sun, from day to day,

Does his Creator's power display,

And publishes to every land

The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening carth Repeats the story of her birth; While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though no real voice or sound Amid their radiant orbs be found? In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, Forever singing, as they shine, "The Hand that made us is divine!" JOSEPH ADDISON.

NO SECTS IN HEAVEN.

ALKING of sects till late one eve,
Of the various doctrines the saints believe,
That night I stood, in a troubled dream,
By the side of a darkly flowing stream.
And a "Churchman" down to the river came⚫
When I heard a strange voice call his name,
"Good father, stop; when you cross this tide,
You must leave your robes on the other side."

But the aged father did not mind;
And his long gown floated out behind,
As down to the stream his way he took,
His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book.

"Im bound for heaven; and when I'm there,
Shall want my book cf Common Prayer;
And, though I put on a starry crown,
I should feel quite lost without my gown."
Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track,
But his gown was heavy and held him back,
And the poor old father tried in vain,
A single step in the flood to gain.

I saw him again on the other side,
But his silk gown floated on the tide;
And no one asked, in that blissful spot,
Whether he belonged to the "church" or not.

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed;
His dress of a sober hue was made:
"My coat and hat must all be gray—
I cannot go any other way."

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin,
And staidly, solemnly, waded in,

And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight,
Over his forehead so cold and white.

But a strong wind carried away his hat;

A moment he silently sighed over that;

And then, as he gazed to the further shore,
The coat slipped off, and was seen no more.
As he entered heaven his suit of gray
Went quietly, sailing, away, away;
And none of the angels questioned him
About the width of his beaver's brim.

Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms
Tied nicely up in his aged arms,

And hymns as many, a very wise thing,

That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh,
And he saw that the river ran broad and high,
And looked rather surprised, as one by one
The psalms and hymns in the wave went down.
And after him, with his MSS.,

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness;

But he cried, "Dear me! what shall I do?
The water has soaked them through and through.”

And there on the river far and wide,
Away they went down the swollen tide;
And the saint, astonished, passed through alone
Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then, gravely walking, two saints by name Down to the stream together came; But, as they stopped at the river's brink, I saw one saint from the other shrink. "Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you, friend, How you attained to life's great end?" "Thus, with a few drops on my brow." "But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now, "And I really think it will hardly do,

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As I'm close communion,' to cross with you;
You're bound, I l:now, to the realins of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I'll go this."

Then straightway plunging with all his might,
Away to the left-his friend to the right,
Apart they went from this world of sin,
But at last together they entered in.

And now, when the river was rolling on,
A Presbyterian church went down;

Of women there seemed an innumerable throng,
But the men I could count as they passed along.

And concerning the road, they could never agree,
The old or the new way, which it could it be,
Nor ever a moment paused to think
That both would lead to the river's brink.

And a sound of murmuring, long and loud,
Came ever up from the moving crowd;
"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new ;
That is the false, and this is the true "—
Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new;
That is the false, and this is the true."

But the "brethren" only seemed to speak :
Modest the sisters walked and meek,
And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,
How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,
A voice arose from the brethren then,
'Let no one speak but the 'holy men;'
For have ye not heard the words of Paul,
Oh, let the women keep silence all?'"

I watched them long in my curious dream,
Till they stood by the borders of the stream;
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met;
But all the brethren were talking yet,
And would talk on till the heaving tide
Carried them over side by side-
Side by side, for the way was one;
The toilsome journey of life was done;
And all who in Christ the Saviour died,
Came out alike on the other side.

No forms or crosses or books had they;
No gowns of silk or suits of gray;
No creeds to guide them, or MSS.;
For all had put on Christ's righteousness.
MRS. CLEVELAND.
JOHN JANKIN'S SERMON.

HE minister said last night, says he,
"Don't be afraid of givin'

If your life ain't nothin' to other folks
Why, what's the use of livin'?"
And that's what I say to my wife, says I,
"There's Brown, that mis`rable sinner,
He'd sooner a beggar would starve, than give
A cent towards buyin' a dinner."

I tell you our minister's prime, he is,
But I couldn't quite determine,

When I heard him givin' it right and left,
Just who was hit by the sermon.

Of course, there could be no mistake,
When he talked of long winded prayin',
For Peters and Johnson they sat and scowled
At every word he was sayin'.

And the minister he went on to say,
"There's various kinds of cheatin',
And religion's as good for every day
As it is to bring to meetin'.

I don't think much of a man that gives
The loud 'amens' at my preachin',
And spends his time the followin' week
In cheatin' and overreachin'."

I guess that dose was bitter

For a man like Jones to swaller;

But I noticed he didn't open his mouth,
Not once, after that, to holler.

Hurrah! says I, for the minister

Of course, I said it quiet-
Give us some more of this open talk;
It's very refreshin' diet.

The minister hit 'em every time;

And when he spoke of fashion,
And a-riggin' out in bows and things,
As woman's rulin' passion,

And a-comin' to church to see the styles,
I couldn't help a winkin'

And a-nudgin' my wife, and, says I, "That's you,” And I guess it sot her thinkin'.

Says I to myself, that sermon's pat;

But man is a queer creation;

And I'm much afraid that most o' the folks
Wouldn't take the application.

Now, if he had said a word about

My personal mode o' sinnin',
I'd have gone to work to right myself,
And not set there a-grinnin'.

Just then the minister says, says he,

"And now I've come to the fellers
Who've lost this shower by usin' their friends
As a sort o' moral umbrellers.

Go home," says he, "and find your faults,
Instead of huntin' your brother's;
Go home," he says, "and wear the coats
You've tried to fit on others."

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