SWI

MORNING HYMN.

WEET Morn! from countless cups of gold
Thou liftest reverently on high

More incense fine than earth can hold,

To fill the sky.

One interfusion wide of love,

Thine airs and odors moist ascend, And 'mid the azure depths above, With light they blend.

The lark, by his own carol blest,

From thy green arbors eager springs;

And his large heart in little breast
Exulting sings.

A joy from hidden paradise

Is rippling down the shiny brooks, With beauty like the gleams of eyes In tenderest looks.

The fly his jocund round inweaves,

With choral strains the birds salute The voiceful flocks, and nothing grieves, And naught is mute.

In man, O Morn! a loftier good,

With conscious blessing, fills the soul,

A life by reason understood,

Which metes the whole.

From earth, and earthly toil and strife,
To deathless aims his love may rise,
Each dawn may wake to better life,
With purer eyes.

Such grace from Thee, O God! be ours,
Renewed with every morning's ray,
And freshening still with added flowers,
Each future day.

Like earth, awake, and warm and bright
With joy the spirit moves and burns ;
So up to Thee, O Fount of Light!

Our light returns.

JOHN STERLING.

ECCE JAM NOCTIS TENUATUR UMBRA.

O, fainter now lie spread the shades of night,

Lo,

And upward shoot the trembling gleams of morn; Suppliant we bend before the Lord of Light, And pray at early dawn,

That His sweet charity may all our sin
Forgive, and make our miseries to cease;
May grant us health, grant us the gift divine
Of everlasting peace.

BREVIARY, translated by Edward Caswall.

MORNING HYMN.

VOUCHSAFE, O LORD, TO KEEP US THIS DAY WITHOUT SIN!

EAR Lord! Thou bringest back the morn;

DE

Thy children wake; Thy children pray : O! make our souls divinely yearn!

Pour Thy best beauty on the day!

Yes, make our best desire most strong!
O, let not sin one hour oppress;
But spread each shining hour along
The beauty of Thy holiness.

In myriad gifts streams forth Thy love;
What countless joys each minute brings!
But O! the cleaving sin remove

That darkens all these precious things.

The thoughts, that in our hearts keep place,
Lord, make a holy, heavenly throng;

And steep in innocence and grace

The issue of each guarded tongue.

Lend our slow feet that speed of Thine;
Our busy hands from evil stay;
Lord! help us still to tasks divine
Still keep us in the heavenly way.

The weaklings plead; the sinners pray;
But, Lord, Thy grace exceeds our sin :

We cannot ask too bright a day;

Too much of Thee we cannot win.

THOMAS HORNBLOWER GILL

MORNING.

AWAKE, my soul, and with the sun

Thy daily stage of duty run;

Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise
To pay thy morning sacrifice.

In conversation be sincere ;

Keep conscience as the noontide clear;
Think how All-seeing God thy ways
And all thy secret thoughts surveys.

By influence of the light divine
Let thy own light to others shine;
Reflect all Heaven's propitious rays,
In ardent love and cheerful praise.

All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept,
And hast refreshed me whilst I slept!
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake,
I may of endless light partake!

Lord, I my vows to Thee renew;
Disperse my sins as morning dew;

Guard my first springs of thought and will,
And with Thyself my spirit fill.

Direct, control, suggest this day,
All I design, or do, or say;

That all my powers, with all their might,
In Thy sole glory may unite.

THOMAS KEN, 1700.

COME TO ME.

COME to me, Lord, when first I wake,

As the faint lights of morning break ;

Bid purest thoughts within me rise,
Like crystal dew-drops to the skies.

Come to me in the sultry noon,
Or earth's low communings will soon
Of Thy dear face eclipse the light,
And change my fairest day to night.

Come to me in the evening shade;
And if my heart from Thee have strayed,
Oh! bring it back, and from afar
Smile on me like Thine evening star.

Come to me in the midnight hour,
When sleep withholds her balmy power;
Let my lone spirit find its rest,

Like John, upon my Saviour's breast.

Come to me through life's varied way,
And when its pulses cease to play,
Then, Saviour, bid me come to Thee,
That where Thou art Thy child may be.

HENRY V. T.