For a sprig of green caraway carries me there. 
  To the old village church, and the old village choir,
  Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung,
  And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that they sung,
  Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun
  Seemed the rafters of gold in God’s temple begun!

  You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown,
  Who followed by scent, till he ran the tune down;
  And dear Sister Green, with more goodness than grace,
  Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place,
  And where “Coronation” exultingly flows,
  Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes!

  To the land of the leal they have gone with their song,
  Where the choir and the chorus together belong,
  Oh be lifted, ye gates!  Let me hear them again—­
  Blessed song, blessed singers! forever, Amen!

BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.

* * * * *

A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY.

“Some cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where the mills have been closed for a considerable time.  The people, who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the cotton:  the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and finally sang the Doxology over them.”—­Spectator of May 14, 1803.

  “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,”
  Praise him who sendeth joy and woe. 
  The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives,
  O, praise him, all that dies, and lives.

  He opens and he shuts his hand,
  But why we cannot understand: 
  Pours and dries up his mercies’ flood,
  And yet is still All-perfect Good.

  We fathom not the mighty plan,
  The mystery of God and man;
  We women, when afflictions come,
  We only suffer and are dumb.

  And when, the tempest passing by,
  He gleams out, sunlike through our sky,
  We look up, and through black clouds riven
  We recognize the smile of Heaven.

  Ours is no wisdom of the wise,
  We have no deep philosophies;
  Childlike we take both kiss and rod,
  For he who loveth knoweth God.

DINAH M. MULOCK CRAIK.

* * * * *

REBECCA’S HYMN.

    FROM “IVANHOE.”

  When Israel, of the Lord beloved,
    Out from the land of bondage came,
  Her fathers’ God before her moved,
    An awful guide, in smoke and flame. 
  By day, along the astonished lands,
    The cloudy pillar glided slow: 
  By night, Arabia’s crimsoned sands
    Returned the fiery column’s glow.

  There rose the choral hymn of praise,
    And trump and timbrel answered keen,
  And Zion’s daughters poured their lays,
    With priest’s and warrior’s voice between. 
  No portents now our foes amaze,
    Forsaken Israel wanders lone: 
  Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
    And Thou hast left them to their own.