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AUGUST I.

QUI LABORAT, ORAT.

O ONLY Source of all our light and life,

Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel,
But whom the hours of mortal moral strife
Alone aright reveal!

Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought,
Thy presence owns ineffable, divine;
Chastised each rebel self-encentered thought,
My will adoreth Thine.

With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind
Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart,
Nor seek to see—
e-for what of earthly kind
Can see Thee as Thou art?—

If well assured 'tis but profanely bold

In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see, It dare not dare the dread communion hold

In ways unworthy Thee.

O not unowned, Thou shalt unnamed forgive,
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ;
And if in work its life it seem to live,

Shalt make that work be prayer.

Nor times shall lack, when while the work it flies,
Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part,
And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes
In recognition start.

But, as Thou willest, give, or e'en forbear,
The beatific supersensual sight,

So with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer
Approach Thee morn and night.

A. H. CLOUGH.

AUGUST 2.

CRUSH NOT MY MIND!

GOD! Thou art mind! Unto the master-mind

Mind should be precious.

Spare my mind alone! All else I will endure; if, as I stand,

Here, with my gains, Thy thunder smite me down,
I bow me; 'tis Thy will, Thy righteous will;
I o'erpass life's restrictions, and I die ;

And if no trace of my career remain
Save a thin corpse at pleasure of the wind
In these bright chambers level with the air,
See Thou to it! But if my spirit fail,
My once proud spirit forsake me at the last,
Hast Thou done well by me? So do not Thou!
Crush not my mind, dear God, though I be crushed!

ROBERT BROwning.

AUGUST 3.

PRAYERS FOR REST.

O THOU who art of Heav'n on high
And stillest ev'ry groan and sigh,
Who twice dost comfort and relieve
The sufferer who twice doth grieve,
I weary on my way and tire,
And vain are pain and long desire,-
O thou, sweet Peace,

Come thou to me, and bring surcease!

Peace on all the hills is sleeping,
See, in ev'ry folded dell,
Hardly is a vapour creeping;

Hush'd is all the woodland

Wait, and ere long

song;

Thou'lt sleep as well.

J. W.

VON GOETHE. (Trs. Editors.)

AUGUST 4.

THANKSGIVING.

THE Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table for me in the presence of mine enemies thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. PSALM XXIII.

AUGUST 5.

ON SOLITUDE.

HAPPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years glide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; sweet recreation:
And innocence, which most doth please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented, let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

ALEXANDER POPE.

AUGUST 6.

My soul, there is a country
Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentry
All skilful in the wars.

There, above noise and danger,

Sweet Peace sits, crowned with smiles,

And One born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious Friend,
And (O my soul, awake!)

Did in pure love descend,

To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure,
But One, who never changes,

Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

AUGUST 7.

ANGELUS.

AVE MARIA! o'er earth and sea,

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee!

Ave Maria! blessed be the hour,

The time, the clime, the spot where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirred with prayer.

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer.

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love!

Ave Maria! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!

Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty doveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image? strike

That painting is no idol-'tis too like.

LORD BYRON.