Thou, Saviour, art his charmed bower,
His magic ring, his rock, his tower.

And when the wicked ones behold
Thy favourites walking in thy light,
Just as, in fancied triumph bold,

They deem'd them lost in deadly night,
Amaz'd they cry, "What spell is this,
"Which turns their sufferings all to bliss?

"How are they free whom we had bound, Upright, whom in the gulf we cast?

"What wondrous helper have they found

"To screen them from the scorching blast? "Three were they-who hath made them four? "And sure a form-divine he wore,

"Even like the Son of God." So cried
The Tyrant, when in one fierce flame
The martyrs liv'd, the murderers died :
Yet knew he not what angel came
To make the rushing fire-flood seem
Like summer breeze by woodland stream.

Song of the Three Children, ver. 27." As it had been a moist whistling wind."

He knew not, but there are who know:
The Matron, who alone hath stood,
When not a prop seem'd left below,

The first lorn hour of widowhood,
Yet cheer'd and cheering all, the while,
With sad but unaffected smile ;—

The Father, who his vigil keeps

By the sad couch whence hope hath flown, Watching the eye where reason sleeps, Yet in his heart can mercy own, Still sweetly yielding to the rod,

Still loving man, still thanking GoD ;

The Christian Pastor, bow'd to earth
With thankless toil, and vile esteem'd,

Still travailing in second birth

Of souls that will not be redeem'd,

Yet stedfast set to do his part,

And fearing most his own vain heart;–

These know on these look long and well,

:

Cleansing thy sight by prayer and faith,

And thou shalt know what secret spell
Preserves them in their living death:

Through sevenfold flames thine

eye

shall see

The Saviour walking with his faithful Three.

TWENTIETH SUNDAY AFTER

TRINITY.

Hear ye, O mountains, the Lord's controversy, and ye strong foundations of the earth. Micah vi, 2.

WHERE is thy favour'd haunt, eternal Voice,
The region of thy choice,

Where, undisturb'd by sin and earth, the soul
Owns thine entire control?-

'Tis on the mountain's summit dark and high,
When storms are hurrying by:

'Tis 'mid the strong foundations of the earth, Where torrents have their birth.

No sounds of worldly toil ascending there,
Mar the full burst of prayer;

Lone Nature feels that she may freely breathe,
And round us and beneath

Are heard her sacred tones: the fitful sweep
Of winds across the steep,

Through wither'd bents-romantic note and clear,
Meet for a hermit's ear,-

The wheeling kite's wild solitary cry,
And, scarcely heard so high,

The dashing waters when the air is still,
From many a torrent rill

That winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell,
Track'd by the blue mist well:

Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart,
For Thought to do her part.

"Tis then we hear the voice of God within, Pleading with care and sin:

"Child of my love! how have I wearied thee? "Why wilt thou err from me?

"Have I not brought thee from the house of slaves, "Parted the drowning waves,

"And set my saints before thee in the way, "Lest thou should'st faint or stray?

"What? was the promise made to thee alone? "Art thou th' excepted one?

"An heir of glory without grief or pain? "O vision false and vain!

"There lies thy cross; beneath it meekly bow; "It fits thy stature now: