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Is heavenly love a theme so high,
It suits not earthly lyre-
A theme but fitted for the sky,
And the eternal quire?


Or is it that where fancy lives
Ambition dwelleth too,
Whilst He who heavenly wisdom gives
Still seeks the lowly few?


Or can it be that human love

More wins the heart and eye, And so has mightier power to move The chords of melody?


Oh! this, methinks, can scarce be true,
Whate'er we say of those;

Let love divine the heart imbue,
And calmly there repose ;—


And thence shall sweetest songs ascend

That ever reached the sky, Though haply few an ear shall lend, Save He who sits on high.


If voiceless oft, yet He who knows
The heart can hear its song,
And well distinguish, though it flows
Angelic hymns among.


But scattered widely there have been A small and chosen band,

Who struck such vocal notes, I ween, And with so skilled a hand


That some but little wont to feel,
And still less wont to weep,
Have felt a power within them steal,
And o'er their senses creep,-


Which half constrained their hearts to turn

From shadows of the earth,

And mourn the past, and inly burn
For things of lofty birth.


Or sure, a few it quite constrained:
Their dull or reckless ear,

Blest from on high the song hath gained
With notes so deep and clear,-


So rich with all the love of heaven,

So full of proffered grace,

That by the cross they've vowed and striven, To gird them for the race ;


The race for the eternal crown,

And palace in the skies;

And Heaven has looked in mercy down,
And they have won the prize.


O God! I humbly ask this gift,

I crave the power from Thee, The human soul on high to lift With sacred melody.


Dead be my heart to other aim,
And in the dust be trod

My worthless lyre, if e'er it claim
What it should win for God.


I ask thee but the holy skill

To fire my fellow's breast With love-but be it ever still The brightest and the best;


The love of Thee, my God and Lord!
Be this the end I seek;

For this can hallow every chord-
E'en mine, so poor and weak.



1 JOHN iv. 16.


WHY comes this fragrance on the summer breeze,
The blended tribute of ten thousand flowers,
To me a frequent wanderer mid the trees

That form these gay, though solitary bowers?
One answer is around, beneath, above-
The echo of the voice, that-" God is love."


Why bursts such melody from bush and tree,
The overflowing of each songster's heart,
So filling mine that it can scarcely be

Content to listen, but would take its part? 'Tis but one song I hear, where'er I rove, Though countless be the notes, that-" God is love."

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