I.

TO our Redeemer's glorious name,
?Awake the sacred song!
O may his love, (immortal flame!)
?Tune every heart and tongue.
II.

His love, what mortal thought can reach?
?What mortal tongue display?
Imagination's utmost stretch
?In wonder dies away.
III.

Let wonder still with love unite,
?And gratitude and joy;
Be Jesus our supreme delight,
?His praise, our best employ.
IV.

Jesus who left his throne on high,
?Left the bright realms of bliss,
And came on earth to bleed and die—
?Was ever love like this?
V.

PARABLE XXXII.

The True Vine

The true and genuine vine am I,
The husbandman my Sire on high;
Each branch in me that grows in vain,
He will not suffer to remain:
But that which yields a plenteous store,
He purges to increase the more.
From your offence you now are clear'd
By those pure words, which you have heard.
Abide in me, and I in you;
For as the branch no fruit can shew,
Unless it cleave unto the tree,
So ye are nothing but in me.
Ye are the branches, I the vine,
Much fruit you bear whene'er you join

Sing Waller's lay,
“Go, lovely rose,” or some old song,
That should I play
Feebly, thy voice may make me strong
With loving memories cherished long.
Sing “Drink to me”
Or “Take, oh, take those lips away,”
Some strain to be
When I am gone and thou art gray,
Remembered of a happier day.
A solemn air,
A melody not loud but low,
Suits whitening hair;
And when the pulse is beating slow
The music's measure should move so.
The song most sweet
Is that which lulls, not thrills the ear;
So, love, repeat
For one who counteth silence dear

VERSE

The world is right,
My heart is light,
I'm like a baby,
There is no “maybe,”
I know my fate.
I never knew
What love could do,
My heart is reeling,
The way I'm feeling
Is simply great.
? REFRAIN

Fit as a fiddle and ready for love,
I could jump over the moon up above,
Fit as a fiddle and ready for love.
Haven't a worry, I haven't a care,
Feel like a feather that's floating on air,
Fit as a fiddle and ready for love.
Soon the church bells will be ringing,
And I'll march with Ma and Pa.

Here IN THIS PLACE SLEEPS ONE WHOM LOVE
C AUSED, THROUGH GREAT CRUELTY, TO FALL ,
A LITTLE SCHOLAR, POOR ENOUGH ,
W HOM F RANCOIS V ILLON MEN DID CALL .
N O SCRAP OF LAND OR GARDEN SMALL ,
H E OWNED . H E GAVE HIS GOODS AWAY .
Table AND TRESTLES, BASKETS—ALL .
For G OD'S SAKE SAY FOR HIM THIS L AY !

‘Here in the window beaming across
Is he—the lineaments like him so!—
The saint whose name I do not know,
With the holy robe and the cheek aglow.
Here will I kneel as if worshipping God
When all the time I am worshipping you,
Whose Love I was—
You that with me will nevermore tread anew
The paradise-paths we trod!’

She came to that prominent pew each day,
And sat there. Zealously she came
And watched her Love—looking just the same
From the rubied eastern tracery-frame—
The man who had quite forsaken her

When those we love are absent—far away,
When those we love have met some hapless fate,
How pours the heart its lone and plaintive lay,
As the wood-songster mourns her stolen mate!
Alas! the Summer-bower—how desolate!
The Winter hearth—how dim its fire appears!
While the pale memories of by-gone years
Around our thoughts like spectral shadows wait.
How changed the picture! here, they all are parted
To meet no more—the true, the gentle-hearted!
The old have journeyed to their bourne—the young
Wander, if living, distant lands among—

Love came to us in time gone by
—When one at twilight shyly played
And one in fear was standing nigh—
—For Love at first is all afraid.

We were grave lovers. Love is past
—That had his sweet hours many a one;
Welcome to us now at the last
—The ways that we shall go upon.

If from my lips some angry accents fell,
Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
'Twas but the error of a sickly mind
And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,
And waters clear, of Reason; and for me
Let this my verse the poor atonement be—
My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined
Too highly, and with a partial eye to see
No blemish. Thou to me didst ever shew
Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend
An ear to the desponding love-sick lay,
Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay
But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,

'Tis true, fair Celia, that by thee I live,
That every kiss, and every fond embrace,
Forms a new soul within me, and doth give
A balsam to the wound made by thy face.
Yet still methinks I miss
That bliss,
Which Lovers dare not name,
And only then described is,
When flame doth meet with flame.

Those favours which do bless me every day,
Are yet but empty and Platonical.
Think not to please your servants with half pay.
Good Gamesters never stick to throw at all.
Who can endure to miss
That bliss,
Which Lovers dare not name,