Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the strife shall cease,

Like Morven's harpers, sing your song of peace;

As in old fable rang the Thracian's

lyre,

Midst howl of fiends and roar of penal fire,

Till the fierce din to pleasing murmurs fell,

And love subdued the maddened heart of hell.

Lend, once again, that holy song a tongue,

Which the glad angels of the Advent sung,

Their cradle-anthem for the Saviour's birth,

Glory to God, and peace unto the earth! Through the mad discord send that calming word

Which wind and wave on wild Genesareth heard,

Lift in Christ's name his Cross against the Sword!

Not vain the vision which the prophets

103

O, sweet, fond dream of human Love! For thee I may not pray.

But, bowed in lowliness of mind,
I make my humble wishes known,-
I only ask a will resigned,

O Father, to thine own!

To-day, beneath thy chastening eye
I crave alone for peace and rest
Submissive in thy hand to lie,
And feel that it is best.

A marvel seems the Universe,

A miracle our Life and Death; A mystery which I cannot pierce, Around, above, beneath.

In vain I task my aching brain,

In vain the sage's thought I scan I only feel how weak and vain, How poor and blind, is man.

And now my spirit sighs for home,

And longs for light whereby to see, And, like a weary child, would come, O Father, unto thee!

Though oft, like letters traced on sand,
My weak resolves have passed away,
In mercy lend thy helping hand
Unto my prayer to-day!

OUR STATE.

THE South-land boasts its teeming cane,
The prairied West its heavy grain,
And sunset's radiant gates unfold
On rising marts and sands of gold!

Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State
Is scant of soil, of limits strait;
Her yellow sands are sands alone,
Her only mines are ice and stone!

From Autumn frost to April rain,
Too long her winter woods complain;
From budding flower to falling leaf,
Her summer time is all too brief.

Its play of smiles, the magic of a glance, Forevermore repeat,

In varied tones and sweet, That beauty, in and of itself, is good.

O kind and generous friend, o'er whom

The sunset hues of Time are cast,
Painting, upon the overpast
And scattered clouds of noonday

185

For not alone in tones of awe and power

He speaks to man;

The cloudy horror of the thundershower

His rainbows span ;

And where the caravan

Winds o'er the desert, leaving, as in

air

The crane-flock leaves, no trace of passage there,

He gives the weary eye

The palm-leaf shadow for the hot noon hours,

And on its branches dry

Calls out the acacia's flowers;
And where the dark shaft pierces
down

Beneath the mountain roots,
Seen by the miner's lamp alone,
The star-like crystal shoots;

So, where, the winds and waves
below,

The coral-branchéd gardens grow,
His climbing weeds and mosses
show,

Like foliage, on each stony bough,
Of varied hues more strangely gay
Than forest leaves in autumn's
day;

Thus evermore,

On sky, and wave, and shore, An all-pervading beauty seems to