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THE BOOK.

GALLERY of sacred pictures manifold,
A minster rich in holy effigies,
And bearing on entablature and frieze
The hieroglyphic oracles of old.
Along its transept aureoled martyrs sit;
And the low chancel side-lights half acquaint
The eye with shrines of prophet, bard, and
saint,

Their golden tablets traced in Holy Writ!
But only when on form and word obscure
Falls from above the white supernal light,
We read the mystic characters aright,
And light informs the silent portraiture,
Until we pause at last awe-held before
The One ineffable Face, love, wonder, and
adore.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE.

BUT, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book
In dusty sequestration wrapt too long,
Assumes the accents of our native tongue;
And he who guides the plough or wields the
crook,

With understanding spirit now may look
Upon her records, listen to her song,
And sift her laws, - much wondering that the

wrong,

GEORGE PERKINS MORRIS, the editorial associate of N. P. Willis, was born at Philadelphia, Oct. 10, 1802, and died in New York City, July 6, 1864. He published several volumes of poetry.

THIS book is all that's left me now,
Tears will unbidden start,
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.

For many generations past

Here is our family tree:

My mother's hands this Bible clasped,
She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear;

Who round the hearthstone used to close,
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters, dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look.
Who loved God's word to hear!
Her angel face, I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;

When all were false, I found thee true,
My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die!

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

THE BIBLE.

LAMP of our feet, whereby we trace
Our path, when wont to stray!
Stream from the fount of heavenly grace
Brook by the traveller's way!

Bread of our souls, whereon we feed, True manna from on high!

Our guide and chart, wherein we read Of realms beyond the sky.

Pillar of fire through watches dark,
Or radiant cloud by day!

When waves would whelm our tossing bark,
Our anchor and our stay!

Pole-star on life's tempestuous deep! Beacon, when doubts surround! Compass, by which our course we keep. Our deep sea-land to sound!

Riches in poverty! our aid
In every needful hour!
Unshaken rock,

the pilgrim's shade, The soldier's fortress tower!

Our shield and buckler in the fight!
Victory's triumphant palm!
Comfort in grief! in weakness, might!
In sickness, Gilead's balm!

Childhood's preceptor! manhood's trust!
Old age's firm ally!

Our hope, when we go down to dust,
Of immortality!

Pure oracles of truth divine,

Unlike each fabled dream

Given forth from Delphos' mystic shrine, Or groves of Academe !

Word of the ever-living God!

Will of his glorious Son!

Without thee how could earth be trod,

Or heaven itself be won?

Yet to unfold thy hidden worth,

Thy mysteries to reveal,

That Spirit which first gave thee forth Thy volume must unseal!

And we, if we aright would learn The wisdom it imparts,

Must to its heavenly teaching turn With simple, childlike hearts!

BERNARD BARTOS

WITH A BIBLE, ON A WEDDING

DAY.

REV. NATHANIEL LANGDON FROTHINGHAM was born in Boston, July 23, 1793 He graduated at Harvard College, in 1811, with distinguished honor, in the class with Edward Everett. Samuel Gilman, and others of subsequent fame. In 1812, at the age of nineteen, he became Instructor in Rhetoric and Oratory in Harvard College, and in 1815 he was ordained pastor of the First Congregational Church in Boston, of which he continued the minister for thirty-five years He died April 4, 1870. Some of his hymns were written after he had become blind.

1805.

HOLY Bible, book divine,

Precious treasure, thou art mine;
Mine to tell me whence I came,
Mine to teach me what I am.
Mine to chide me when I rove,
Mine to show a Saviour's love;
Mine art thou to guide my feet,
Mine to judge, condemn, acquit.
Mine to comfort in distress,
If the Holy Spirit bless;
Mine to show by living faith
Man can triumph over death.

Mine to tell of joys to come,
And the rebel sinner's doom;
Holy Bible, book divine,
Precious treasure, thou art mine,

JOHN BURTON.

THE WORD.

O WORD of God incarnate,
O Wisdom from on high,
O Truth unchanged, unchanging,
O Light of our dark sky;
We praise thee for the radiance
That from the hallowed page,
A lantern to our footsteps,
Shines on from age to age.

The Church from thee, her Master,
Received the gift divine;
And still that light she lifteth

O'er all the earth to shine.

It is the golden casket

1867.

Where gems of truth are stored; It is the heaven-drawn picture Of thee, the living Word.

It floateth like a banner
Before God's host unfurled:
It shineth like a beacon
Above the darkling world;
It is the chart and compass,

That o'er life's surging sea,
Mid mists and rocks and quicksands,
Still guide, O Christ, to thee.

Oh, make thy Church, dear Saviour,
A lamp of burnished gold,
To bear before the nations
Thy true light, as of old.
Oh, teach thy wandering pilgrims
By this their path to trace,
Till, clouds and darkness ended,
They see thee face to face.

WILLIAM WALSHAM How.

GOD'S WORD AND WORKS.

THE heavens declare thy glory, Lord; In every star thy wisdom shines; But when our eyes behold thy word,

We read thy name in fairer lines.

The rolling sun, the changing light.

And nights and days, thy power confess; But the blest volume thou hast writ, Reveals thy justice and thy grace.

Sun, moon, and stars convey thy praise Round the whole earth, and never stand: So when thy truth began its race,

It touched and glanced on every land.

THE starry firmament on high,
And all the glories of the sky,
Yet shine not to thy praise, O Lord,
So brightly as thy written word.

The hopes that holy word supplies,
Its truths divine and precepts wise,
In each a heavenly beam I see,
And every beam conducts to thee.

When, taught by painful proof to know
That all is vanity below,

The sinner roams from comfort far,
And looks in vain for sun or star;

Soft gleaming then those lights divine
Through all the cheerless darkness shine,
And sweetly to the ravished eye
Disclose the dayspring from on high.

Almighty Lord, the sun shall fail,
The moon forget her nightly tale,
And deepest silence hush on high,
The radiant chorus of the sky;

But, fixed for everlasting years,
Unmoved amid the wreck of spheres,
Thy word shall shine in cloudless day,
When heaven and earth have passed away.

1815.

SIR ROBERT GRANT.

THE DIFFUSION OF THE GOSPEL.

"Walte, walte nah und fern."

SPREAD, oh, spread, thou mighty Word,
Spread the kingdom of the Lord,
Wheresoe'er his breath has given
Life to beings meant for heaven.

Tell them how the Father's will
Made the world, and keeps it still,
How he sent his Son to save
All who help and comfort crave.

Tell of our Redeemer's love,
Who forever doth remove
By his holy sacrifice
All the guilt that on us lies.

Tell them of the Spirit given
Now, to guide us up to heaven,
Strong and holy, just and true,
Working both to will and do.

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Word of Life! most pure and strong,
Lo! for thee the nations long;
Spread, till from its dreary night
All the world awakes to light.

Up, the ripening fields ye see,
Mighty shall the harvest be;
But the reapers still are few,
Great the work they have to do.

Lord of harvest, let there be
Joy and strength to work for thee;
Let the nations far and near

See thy light and learn thy fear. JONATHAN FRIEDRICH BAHNMAIER, 1823. Translated by CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1858.

THE BOOK OF GOD.

THY thoughts are here, my God, Expressed in words divine, The utterance of heavenly lips In every sacred line.

Across the ages they

Have reached us from afar, Than the bright gold more golden they, Purer than purest star.

More durable they stand

Than the eternal hills;

Far sweeter and more musical
Than music of earth's rills.

Fairer in their fair hues

Than the fresh flowers of earth, More fragrant than the fragrant climes Where odors have their birth.

Each word of thine a gem

From the celestial mines, A sunbeam from that holy heaven Where holy sunlight shines.