SECOND SUNDAY IN LENT. Он help us, Lord! each hour of need Thy heavenly succour give; Help us in thought, and word, and deed, Each hour on earth we live. Oh help us, when our spirits bleed And when our hearts are cold and dead, O help us, through the prayer of faith For still the more the servant hath, If strangers to Thy fold we call, The crumbs that from Thy table fall, 'Tis all we dare entreat. But be it, Lord of Mercy, all, So Thou wilt grant but this; The crumbs that from Thy table fall Are light, and life, and bliss. Oh help us, Jesus! from on high, SIXTH SUNDAY IN LENT. RIDE on ride on in majesty! Ride on ride on in majesty! In lowly pomp ride on to die! Oh Christ! Thy triumphs now begin Ride on! ride on in majesty! Ride on! ride on in majesty! Ride on ride on in majesty! GOOD FRIDAY. BOUND upon th' accursed tree, By the flesh with scourges torn, Bound upon th' accursed tree, Lord! our suppliant knees we bow, Bound upon th' accursed tree, Bound upon th' accursed tree, SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. LORD! have mercy when we strive Lord! have mercy when we lie On the restless bed, and sigh, Sigh for Death, yet fear it still, From the thought of former ill; When all other hope is gone; When our course is almost done: When the dim advancing gloom Tells us that our hour is come, Oh then have mercy! Lord! Lord! have mercy when we know First how vain this world below; When the earliest gleam is given Of Thy bright but distant Heaven' CHARLES WOLFE. CHARLES WOLFE was born in Dublin, December 14, 1791. His father was a country gentleman, on whose death the family removed to England, and Charles was educated at Winchester and at the University of Dublin, where he graduated in 1814. He took orders, and in 1817 became curate of Ballyclog, county Tyrone, whence he was soon transferred to Donoughmore. He gave the most earnest attention to his clerical duties, and won the hearty love of his parishioners. But he had only been with them three years when his health began to fail, and he was compelled to travel in search of a more congenial climate. He went to England, | and to the south of France, and finally returned to Ireland, and died of consumption, at Cork, February 21, 1823. Wolfe's "Burial of Sir John Moore," which is said to have been suggested by reading Southey's account of it in the "Edinburgh Annual Register," was written in 1817, and somehow found its way into the newspapers anonymously. It attracted immediate attention and excited a good deal of speculation as to its authorship. It was most confidently attributed to Campbell. Wolfe's literary remains, consisting of sermons and poems, with a memoir, were published in 1825. JOHN KEBLE. JOHN KEBLE was born at Fairford, Gloucestershire, April 25, 1792. His father was a clergyman, and the boy was educated at home until, at the age of fifteen, he entered Oxford. He was a fine scholar, and gained some of the highest honors of the university, including prizes for Latin and English essays. He took orders in 1816, and became his father's assistant. He published "The Christian Year, or Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holidays throughout the Year," in 1827; some portions of it had been written as early as 1819. Its success was immediate, and it has since passed through innu merable editions, both in England and America. In 1831 Keble succeeded Milman as Professor of Poetry at Oxford. His father died in 1835, and in the same year the poet married and removed to Hursley. He published a second volume of poems, "Lyra Innocentium," in 1846. He manifested an intense devotion to the Church, and the Tractarian movement is by some traced to a sermon of his on national apostasy, delivered in 1833. He took an active part in that controversy, and exerted a marked influence. He died at Bournemouth, March 29, 1866. EVENING. Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent.-St. Luke xxiv. 29. 'Tis gone, that bright and orbèd blaze, In darkness and in weariness Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear, When round Thy wondrous works below Or by the light Thy words disclose When with dear friends sweet talk I hold, When the soft dews of kindly sleep My wearied eyelids gently steep, Be my last thought, how sweet to rest For ever on my Saviour's breast. Abide with me from morn till eve, For without Thee I cannot live: Abide with me when night is nigh, For without Thee I dare not die. Thou Framer of the light and dark, The rulers of this Christian land, Oh! by Thine own sad burden, borne If some poor wandering child of Thine Have spurn'd, to-day, the voice divine, Now, Lord, the gracious work begin; Let him no more lie down in sin. Watch by the sick: enrich the poor Come near and bless us when we wake, |