Yet we take thee in thy blindness,
And we buffet thee in kindness;
Little chary of thy fame,-

Dust unborn may bless or blame,—
But we mould thee for the root
Of man's promised healing fruit,
And we mould thee, hence to rise
As our brother to the skies.'

One is dated 1846, the other 1832. One is the elder's poem, one the young man's; and how curious that while the youthful one rehearses the perils and falls, it is buoyantly and exultingly at the final safety; the other, still hopeful indeed, is grave and cautious, still watching, though well-nigh in the cadence of evening calm.

SEVENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

DAVID again furnishes the thought in the Lyra for to-day. His ‘I will not offer burnt-offerings without cost,' is made the reply to the grudging spirit that demands 'To what purpose is this waste?' applying it especially to church decoration, as surely it well may be applied, since the threshingfloor of Araunah the Jebusite was verily destined to become the site of the Temple.

The question is put, Why is in old cathedrals and churches such exquisite carving bestowed upon the lofty roof, or behind a screen as well as in front, where no eye of man can admire? Why should gold and gems be lavished on the sacred vessels so seldom examined and displayed, or why adorn the chancel in as costly a manner as possible?

The first reply comes from the teachers of the Lyra children, whose chief delight in conveying a present is in having themselves had a share in making it. Or, again, it is the spirit that must needs make a lovetoken as perfect and excellent as can be, as an expression of the heart, and would cherish the keep-sake in the most precious casket. Then we rise to the favoured king, who would not offer that which cost him nothing; and lastly, we are bidden reverently to recollect the commendation bestowed upon the outpouring of the precious ointment of spikenard from the alabaster box. In the words of a former poem,

'Love delights to bring her best,

And where Love is, that offering evermore is blest.'

The elder poem, on the Gospel, is one of the most difficult in the Christian Year, and one that perhaps it requires both a certain temperament and some experience to appreciate, for the subject is the contrast between a spiritual feast and the dryness of common life both before and after it. The early part is carried on like a parable, in the description of the scenery in which the half-famished multitude were waiting on their Lord on the bare hills above Bethsaida, with Sirion rising high to the

north, and Tabor to the south; and just below Gennesaret's lake lies, closely shut in by the hills, (we confess that we do not understand, 'Though all seem gathered in one eager bound,') and on beyond lies the long narrow palm-clad cleft, along which the Jordan rushes down towards the dark sulphureous sea, 'where five proud cities lie.' Bela or Zoar must be reckoned here, together with Admah, Zeboim, and the two better known ones. The landscape is severe and desolate, but the weary Galilean had not to travel fainting over the inhospitable and parching hills to his distant home, for his Master was beside him full of mercy, and ready to bring relief. No angel wing was seen, no bread of heaven fell visibly;

'But one poor fisher's rude and scanty store

Is all He asks and more than needs,

Who men and angels daily feeds,

And stills the wailing sea-bird on the hungry shore.'

And though the feast was soon over, and the hills left lonely, must not the recollection of what had been there done for them have always been with the guests, cheering them, and changing their whole view of life?

Within this description there is a reference to the state of mind in which a Christian may be who has long striven to do his duty, attended on Church ordinances, and read his Bible, but all in a dry and dreary frame, without feeling comfort or finding himself the better, and more full of the fear of punishment than of the hope of bliss. But let him not turn away. In time, when his constancy and patience have been brought out, will come his hour for healing and for balm.

No outward change, perhaps, may take place in the measure or manner of the ordinances he has been using; all may seem as homely, as stinted, as uninspiring as before, but the full perception of blessing is conveyed, the perfect feast of love and joy is poured in on the heart. Or, again, the feast may come through holy teaching from without, or from the bringing near of greater privileges in Church Services, with all those accessories that aid and lift the soul into a blessed and rapturous sense of communion with God. In some way or other, the patient soul will have the feast. Then again will come a reaction, but it can never again be as it was before that rapture was vouchsafed.

As a mountain traveller in the night, pausing to listen and hearing no sound in the distance, may through the very solitude become the more conscious of the Divine Presence and protection, so the Christian, even when alone, and it may be debarred from that which brought the feast of rapture, feels the Presence lifting the world nearer Heaven, and everything in common life speaks to him of the loving-kindness he has once tasted.

'Seen daily, yet unmarked before,

Earth's common paths are strewn all o'er

With flowers of pensive hope, the wreath of man forgiven.'

How like is this to the spirit of Eugénie de Guérin's sweet moralizings

over earth's common paths, the bird's foot-marks in the snow, the bird flying over the tree, or the very washing in the stream.

The fair types of nature are constant food for heavenly musings, and food for interest and enjoyment; the primrose, the summer rose, the autumn leaf; or, again, the stars above, and the poor among us; all become means of uplifting the heart, and doing the work of grace. For either men love us, or they require our love or charity, or else indeed their very misconduct and ill-usage may be the highest lesson of all, and train us in the thankworthy' power of the practice of patience.*

Thus we need have no fears or despondencies in following Him,

'Whose love can turn earth's worst and least

Into a conqueror's royal feast.'

EIGHTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

THE disobedient prophet is made the text of a warning something like that in Presumption,' that good beginnings are not all. But there is something more vividly personal in it, as though the poet-pastor were cautioning himself, when he speaks of the mission of the Man of God, sent to warn the apostate king, who was perverting the altar of Bethel, raised in memory of the angelic vision of Jacob.

Wonders were wrought, and great effects produced. And then was the moment to return, touching none of the rewards, partaking in none of the pleasures that might savour of the sin he had rebuked. And in this warning there is no doubt an under-current of thought upon the danger to those who have produced an impression of becoming entangled by their own popularity, into truckling to the very evils they had denounced, and falling back to idolatry to this world.

6 The grey-haired saint may fail at last,
The surest guide a wanderer prove,
Death only binds us fast,

To the bright shore of love.'

Nothing but death is a sure deliverance from evil.

The Evening Lesson is followed in the Lyra. The subject is the apparent strangeness of demanding half the last morsel destined for the famishing child on behalf of a stranger. And it is unfolded like the beautiful symbolic story that attaches to St. Martin's cloak, King Alfred's loaf, and many another holy saint of the earlier age.

* This meaning, I think, must belong to

'Men love us, or they need our love,

Freely they own, or heedless prove,

The curse of lawless hearts, the joy of self-control.'

Either they love us, or require good works of us, or at the very worst unintentionally teach us self-control, like the sermon which, according to George Herbert, may at least be an exercise of patience.

For in yon haggard form He begs unseen,
To Whom for life we kneel;

One little cake He asks with lowly mien,
Who blesses every meal.'

For 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.' And such free-handed believing charity as that widow's is verily and literally the most real safeguard against want. Yet more; not only did the mother and son obtain daily food in return for their bounty and self-denial, but life likewise. And in like manner He Who is the Resurrection and the Life, will requite such love as theirs with Eternal Life.

NINTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

ONE Lent, Mr. Keble preached a series of Wednesday evening sermons on the five forty days fasts in the Scripture-the fast of Noah while the Flood was rising, the fast of Moses before the giving of the Law, and the other after the forfeiture of the first tables, the fast of Elijah, and the fast of Jonah.

That on the fast of Elijah was so perfect an elucidation of the line of thought in this poem, that we have much desired to see it printed; but it was preached at a period when he had so much recourse to notes, especially for week-day sermons, that we much fear that this beautiful series may not be in an available form. We ourselves have no distinct recollection of it, only it made us view the poem with fresh eyes, and we will do our best to detail the ideas it has since conveyed to us. Be it remembered, however, that the sermon never said what we are saying; we are only unravelling the hymn by its help.

Times of anguish and rebuke, when wickedness prevails in high places, and worldliness and dissipation are more than usually rampant, always impel the higher and purer spirits to draw apart, perhaps for their whole lives, as did the hermit saints of Egypt, and the many who have taken refuge in monasticism from the evils of their time. Even those who have most boldly rebuked vice, and struggled most manfully against the apostasy of their day, are at times prone to be almost angered that there is no great judgment of God sent to touch and terrify these sinners, and to retire in despair, as if all they had done was in vain, since they see no fruit, and God, it seems, will not work with them.

'It is enough, O Lord; now let me die,
Even as my fathers did; for what am I

That I should stand where they have vainly striven?'

The first answer is, 'What doest thou here?' forsaking in despondency the immediate task; and then, in rebuke to the bitter feelings of disappointment, indignation, and perplexity, that have really prompted the desertion, comes the wonderful revelation to Elijah, when in that very state of burning anguish of soul.

The great and strong wind is treated as the token of His Power; then follows the earthquake of judgment, the flames of wrath; but 'the Lord was not' in any of these. The tremendous judgment is the way in which man would like to compel the sinner to hearken, but it is not the Lord's way. Or when indeed He sends His Angels with His terrors, there is after the fire 'a still small Voice.' 'Soft, meek, tender ways,' are those by which He draws the sinner; ways unseen and unheard not merely by the world in general, but by the toiling Elijahs themselves, who are prone to believe that because they do not trace how God is working with them on men's hearts, He is not working at all.

Then the complainer may well go back to his work, never more to cry out, that 'I, I only am left,' because he cannot see the seven thousand who have never bowed the knee to Baal.

Thou knowest them not, but their Creator knows. There is no risk of waste even in casting bread on the waters; it will be found after many days. Shew Thy servants Thy work, and their children Thy glory,' saith Moses; and it is well, since there is no temptation greater than that of visible success. So it may be better to believe in the multitudes of brethren who worship with us, than to see the work of our own hands prosper before our eyes.

How he felt that confidence must be heard in the war-song with which he who felt and spoke as Elijah, went back to fight the battle 'Pro Ecclesia Dei,' with the lax indifferent world.

'Yet along the Church's sky

Stars are scattered, pure and high,
Yet her wasted gardens bear
Autumn violets sweet and rare,
Relics of a spring time clear,
Earnests of a bright new year.

Israel yet hath thousands sealed,
Who to Baal never kneeled;
Seize the banner, spread its fold,
Spread it with no faltering hold,
Spread its foldings high and fair,
Let all see the Cross is there.

What if to the trumpet's sound,
Voices few come answering round,
Scarce a votary swell the burst,
When the anthem peals at first?
God hath sown, and He will reap;

Growth is slow where roots are deep.'

To our minds these are the most glorious and inspiriting of all the verses of this good and patient soldier of his Lord, this Crusader, who has won back to so many their rightful inheritance of true faith.

At first sight it seems a little flat to turn to the simple poem on a child's garden, (a little stiff in versification too,) but the lesson it draws out on the words, 'Be thou faithful in that which is least, I will make