Teach me, oh! teach me to adore

E'en with that pure one's faith;

A faith, all made of love and light,

Child-like, and, therefore, full of might!

A POET'S DYING HYMN.

Be mute who will, who can,

Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice!
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine

In such a temple as we now behold,

Rear'd for thy presence; therefore am I bound

To worship, here and everywhere.

WORDSWORTH.

THE blue, deep, glorious heavens !—I lift mine eye,

And bless thee, O my God! that I have met And own'd thine image in the majesty

Of their calm temple still!-that never yet There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night:

I bless thee, O my God!

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse,
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,

Touching death's features with a lovely glance
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,

And lending to each holy star a ray

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:

I bless thee, O my God!

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid,

In the earth's garden-'midst the mountains old,

And the low thrillings of the forest shade,
And the wild sounds of waters uncontroll'd,

And upon many a desert plain and shore—
No solitude-for there I felt thee more:

I bless thee, O my God!

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed

The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye, To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread, To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie

Far in man's heart-if I have kept it free

And pure a consecration unto thee:

I bless thee, O my God!

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught
With an awakening power-if thou hast made,
Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought,
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd
To lands of other lays, and there become

Native as early melodies of home:

I bless thee, O my God!

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer:-for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!

That I have loved-that I have known the love

Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, Yet, with a colouring halo from above,

Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,

Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links for intercourse with thee:

I bless thee, O my God!

That by the passion of its deep distress,
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,

Too full for words upon their stream to bear,
I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,
Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine;

I bless thee, O my God!

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or

dread,

Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken,