Angels and men, in harmony combine!

While human years are measured by the sun, And while eternity its course shall run, His goodness, in perpetual showers descending, Exalt in songs and raptures never-ending!

398. L. M. Mrs. Sigourney.

The Year Crowned with Goodness.

1 G.o.d of the year! with songs of praise, And hearts of love, we come to bless Thy bounteous hand, for Thou hast shed Thy manna o'er our wilderness.

2 In early spring-time Thou didst fling O'er earth its robe of blossoming; And its sweet treasures, day by day, Rose quickening in Thy blessed ray.

3 G.o.d of the seasons! Thou hast blest The land with sunlight and with showers; And plenty o'er its bosom smiles, To crown the sweet autumnal hours.

4 Praise, praise to Thee! Our hearts expand, To view these blessings of Thy hand, And on the incense-breath of love Ascend to their bright home above.

399. C. M. Bowring.

The Hymn of the Seasons.

1 The heavenly spheres to Thee, O G.o.d, Attune their evening hymn; All-wise, all-holy, Thou art praised In song of seraphim.

Unnumbered systems, suns, and worlds, Unite to worship Thee, While Thy majestic greatness fills s.p.a.ce, time, eternity.

2 Nature, a temple worthy Thee, Beams with Thy light and love; Whose flowers so sweetly bloom below, Whose stars rejoice above; Whose altars are the mountain-cliffs That rise along the sh.o.r.e; Whose anthems, the sublime accord Of storm and ocean-roar.

3 Her song of grat.i.tude is sung By Spring's awakening hours; Her Summer offers at Thy shrine Its earliest, loveliest flowers; Her Autumn brings its golden fruits, In glorious luxury given; While Winter's silver heights reflect Thy brightness back to heaven.

400. 10s. M. Emily Taylor.

The Changing Year.

1 G.o.d of the changing year, whose arm of power In safety leads through danger's darkest hour,-- Here in Thy temple bow Thy children down, To bless Thy mercy, and Thy might to own.

2 Thine are the beams that cheer us on our way, And pour around the gladdening light of day; Thine is the night, and the fair orbs that shine To cheer its hours of darkness,--all are Thine.

3 If round our path the thorns of sorrow grew, And mortal friends were faithless, Thou wast true Did sickness shake the frame, or anguish tear The wounded spirit, Thou wast present there.

4 O, lend Thine ear, and lift our voice to Thee; Where'er we dwell, still let Thy mercy be; From year to year, still nearer to Thy shrine Draw our frail hearts, and make them wholly Thine!

401. C. M. Gaskell.

Close of the Year.

1 O G.o.d! to Thee our hearts would pay Their grat.i.tude sincere, Whose love hath kept us, night and day, Throughout another year.

2 Of every breath, and every power, Thou wast the gracious source; From Thee came every happy hour Which smiled along its course.

3 And if sometimes across our path A cloud its shadows threw, Thou didst not waft it there in wrath, But loving-kindness true.

4 For joy and grief alike we pay Our thanks to Thee above; And only pray to grow each day More worthy of Thy love.

402. L. M. *John Taylor.

The Worth of Years.

1 Like shadows gliding o'er the plain, Or clouds that roll successive on, Man's busy generations pa.s.s; And while we gaze, their forms are gone.

2 O Father, in whose mighty hand The boundless years and ages lie, Teach us Thy boon of life to prize, And use the moments as they fly;--

3 To crowd the narrow span of life With wise designs and virtuous deeds; And so shall death but lead us on To n.o.bler service that succeeds.

403. P. M. *Milman.

Funeral Hymn.

1 Brother, thou art gone before us, And thy saintly soul is flown, Where tears are wiped from every eye, And sorrows are unknown; From the burden of the flesh, And from care and fear, released, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

2 Sin no more can taint thy spirit, Nor can doubt thy faith a.s.sail; Thy soul its welcome has received, Thy strength shall never fail; And thou'rt sure to meet the good, Whom on earth thou lovedst best, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

3 To the grave thy body bearing, Low we place it mid the dead; And lay the turf above it now, And seal its narrow bed; But thy spirit soars away, Free, among the faithful blest, Where the wicked cease from troubling And the weary are at rest.

404. C. M. Whittier.

Not Lost, But Gone Before.