My times are in thy hand! 
      Pale poverty or wealth. 
    Corroding care or calm repose. 
    Spring’s balmy breath or winter’s snows. 
      Sickness or buoyant health,—­
        Whate’er betide,
        If God provide,
  ’T is for the best; I wish no lot beside.

    My times are in thy hand! 
      Should friendship pure illume
    And strew my path with fairest flowers,
    Or should I spend life’s dreary hours
      In solitude’s dark gloom,
        Thou art a friend. 
        Till time shall end
  Unchangeably the same; in thee all beauties blend.

    My times are in thy hand! 
      Many or few, my days
    I leave with thee,—­this only pray,
    That by thy grace, I, every day
      Devoting to thy praise,
        May ready be
        To welcome thee
  Whene’er thou com’st to set my spirit free.

    My times are in thy hand! 
      Howe’er those times may end,
    Sudden or slow my soul’s release,
    Midst anguish, frenzy, or in peace,
      I’m safe with Christ my friend. 
        If he is nigh,
        Howe’er I die,
  ’T will be the dawn of heavenly ecstasy.

    My times are in thy hand! 
      To thee I can intrust
    My slumbering clay, till thy command
    Bids all the dead before thee stand,
      Awaking from the dust. 
        Beholding thee,
        What bliss ’t will be
  With all thy saints to spend eternity!

    To spend eternity
      In heaven’s unclouded light! 
    From sorrow, sin, and frailty free,
    Beholding and resembling thee,—­
      O too transporting sight! 
        Prospect too fair
        For flesh to bear! 
  Haste! haste! my Lord, and soon transport me there!

CHRISTOPHER NEWMAN HALL.

* * * * *

A MYSTICAL ECSTASY.

  E’en like two little bank-dividing brooks,
    That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
  And having ranged and searched a thousand nooks,
    Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
    Where in a greater current they conjoin: 
  So I my Best-Beloved’s am; so He is mine.

  E’en so we met; and after long pursuit,
    E’en so we joined; we both became entire;
  No need for either to renew a suit,
    For I was flax and he was flames of fire: 
    Our firm-united souls did more than twine: 
  So I my Best-Beloved’s am; so He is mine.

  If all those glittering Monarchs that command
    The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
  Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,
    I would not change my fortunes for them all: 
    Their wealth is but a counter to my coin: 
  The world’s but theirs; but my Beloved’s mine.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

* * * * *