Where pointed brambles grew,
  Intwined with horrid thorn,
  Gay flowers, forever new,
  The painted fields adorn,—­
      The blushing rose
      And lily there,
      In union fair,
      Their sweets disclose.

  Where the bleak mountain stood
  All bare and disarrayed,
  See the wide-branching wood
  Diffuse its grateful shade;
      Tall cedars nod,
      And oaks and pines,
      And elms and vines
      Confess thee God.

  The tyrants of the plain
  Their savage chase give o’er,—­
  No more they rend the slain,
  And thirst for blood no more;
      But infant hands
      Fierce tigers stroke,
      And lions yoke
      In flowery bands.

  O, when, Almighty Lord! 
  Shall these glad things arise,
  To verify thy word,
  And bless our wandering eyes? 
      That earth may raise,
      With all its tongues,
      United songs
      Of ardent praise.

PHILIP DODDRIDGE.

* * * * *

THE WORD.

  O Word of God incarnate,
    O Wisdom from on high,
  O Truth unchanged, unchanging,
    O Light of our dark sky;
  We praise thee for the radiance
    That from the hallowed page,
  A lantern to our footsteps,
    Shines on from age to age.

  The Church from thee, her Master,
    Received the gift divine;
  And still that light she lifteth
    O’er all the earth to shine. 
  It is the golden casket
    Where gems of truth are stored;
  It is the heaven-drawn picture
    Of, thee, the living Word.

  It floateth like a banner
    Before God’s host unfurled;
  It shineth like a beacon
    Above the darkling world;
  It is the chart and compass
    That o’er life’s surging sea,
  Mid mists and rocks and quicksands,
    Still guide, O Christ, to thee.

  Oh, make thy Church, dear Saviour,
    A lamp of burnished gold,
  To bear before the nations
    Thy true light, as of old. 
  Oh, teach thy wandering pilgrims
    By this their path to trace,
  Till, clouds and darkness ended,
    They see thee face to face.

WILLIAM WALSHAM HOW.

* * * * *

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

  The chimes, the chimes of Motherland,
    Of England green and old. 
  That out from fane and ivied tower
    A thousand years have tolled;
  How glorious must their music be
    As breaks the hallowed day,
  And calleth with a seraph’s voice
    A nation up to pray!

  Those chimes that tell a thousand tales,
    Sweet tales of olden time;
  And ring a thousand memories
    At vesper, and at prime! 
  At bridal and at burial,
    For cottager and king,
  Those chimes, those glorious Christian chimes,
    How blessedly they ring!