EXITE, SION FILIÆ.

(MEDIEVAL HYMN.)

DAUGHTERS of Sion, seek your King!
Go forth,-go forth to meet Him!
Your Solomon is hastening

Where that dear flock shall greet Him.
The sceptre and the crown by right
He wears, in robe of purple dight.

Your Solomon-the Prince of Peace-
Bears not His mother's laurel,
But with the olive bids to cease
The long and bloody quarrel.
Jesus, the Son of God Most High,
Offers His peace to them that die.

It glitters fair His diadem,

But thorns are there entwining, And from the Red Sea comes each gem That in its wreath is shining: Their radiance glows like stars of night; With precious blood-drops are they bright.

The royal sceptre that He bears,

Beneath whom nature quaketh,
No monarch's pride and pomp declares,
A reed, it feebly shaketh:

For iron sceptre ne'er possess'd

The power to guide a human breast.

The festive purple of the Lord,
Is here no garment stately;
A vest, by very slaves abhorred,-
The worm hath tinged it lately.
"I am a worm," of old, said He,
And what its toils have tinged ye see.

We, therefore, to the King of Kings
Bow lowly, from Him learning,

To pomp and pride, that this world brings,
To make our boast in spurning:

Such love the members best adorns,

For whom the Head was crowned with thorns.

Translated by C. NEALE.

GIVE.

SEE the rivers flowing
Downwards to the sea,
Pouring all their treasures
Bountiful and free:
Yet to help their giving
Hidden springs arise;

Or, if need be, showers

Feed them from the skies.

Watch the princely flowers
Their rich fragrance spread,
Load the air with perfumes,
From their beauty shed;
Yet their lavish spending
Leaves them not in dearth,
With fresh life replenished
By their mother earth.

Give thy heart's best treasures-
From fair nature learn:
Give thy love, and ask not,

Wait not a return!

And the more thou spendest

From thy little store,

With a double bounty

God will give thee more.

A. A. PROCTER.

"THIS IS NOT YOUR REST."

SWEET brooklet ever gliding,
Now high the mountain riding,
The lone vale now dividing,
Whither away?

"With Pilgrim course I flow,
"Or in summer's scorching glow,
"Or o'er moonless wastes of snow,
Nor stop nor stay;

"For O, by high behest
"To a bright abode of rest,
"In my parent ocean's breast,
"I haste away."

Many a dark morass,

Many a craggy moss,

Thy feeble force must pass,

Yet, yet delay!

"Though the marsh be dire and deep,

Though the crag be stern and steep, "On, on my course must sweep,

"I may not stay;

"For O, be it east or west,

"To a home of glorious rest,

"In the bright sea's boundless breast, "I haste away!"

The warbling bowers beside thee,
The laughing flowers that hide thee,
With soft accord, they chide thee,
Sweet brooklet stay!

"I taste of the fragrant flowers,

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I respond to the warbling bowers, "And sweetly they charm the hours "Of my winding away;

"But ceaseless still in quest

"Of that everlasting rest,

"I haste away."

Knowest thou that dread abyss ?

Is it a scene of bliss ?

Ah, rather cling to this,

Sweet brooklet stay!

"O, who shall fitly tell,

"What wonders there may

dwell?

"That world of mystery well

"Might strike dismay.

"But I know 'tis my parent's breast,
"There held I must needs be blest,
"And with joy to that promised rest,
"I haste away."

LORD GLENELG.

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?

THY neighbour ?-It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless,
Whose aching heart or burning brow,
Thy soothing hand may press.

Thy neighbour?-'tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,

Whom hunger sends from door to door,—
Go thou and succour him.