3 Sweet spring! of days and roses made, Whose charms for beauty vie, Thy days depart, thy roses fade; Thou too, alas! must die.

4 Only a sweet and holy soul Hath tints that never fly; While flowers decay, and seasons roll, This lives, and cannot die.

963. L. M. Bowring.

Evening Hymn with Nature.

1 To Thee, my G.o.d! to thee I bring The evening's grateful offering; From thee, the source of joy above, Flow everlasting streams of love; And all the rays of light that shine, And bless creation, Lord! are thine.

2 The morn, when stepping down the hills-- The noon, which all creation fills With glory; evening's placid fall, The twilight and the raven pall Of midnight; all alike proclaim Thy great, thine all impressive name.

3 And from the little worm, whose light Shines palely through the shades of night, Up to the sparkling stars that run Their evening rounds--or glorious sun, Rolling his car to twilight's rest-- All, all in thee is bright and blest.

4 And over all--above, below, We see thee--ever-present thou!

In every wandering rill that flows, In every gentle breeze that blows; In every rising, setting sun, We trace thee--own thee--holy One!

5 Yes! in the mid-day's fervid beams, And in the midnight's shadowy dreams, In action and repose, we see, We recognize and worship thee; To thee our worthiest songs would give, And in thee die, and to thee live.

964. 7s. M. B. Barton.

"He shall be like a tree planted in the rivers of water."

1 Blessed state! and happy he Who is like that planted tree; Living waters lave his root, Bends his bough with golden fruit.

2 When the seedling from its bed First lifts up its timid head, Ministry of thine must give.

All on which its life can live.

3 Showers from thee must bid it thrive, Breath of thine must oft revive; Light from thee its bloom supplies,-- Left by thee it fades and dies.

4 Thine, O Lord! the power and praise Which a sight like this displays; Power of thine must plant it there, Praise of thee it should declare.

965. 11s. M. (Peculiar.) F. Osgood.

"Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise."

1 Approach not the altar With gloom in thy soul; Nor let thy feet falter, From terror's control!

G.o.d loves not the sadness Of fear and mistrust; Oh serve him with gladness-- The Gentle, the Just!

2 His bounty is tender, His being is love, His smile fills with splendor, The blue arch above.

Confiding, believing, Oh! enter always, "His courts with thanksgiving-- His portals with praise!"

3 Nor come to the temple With pride in thy mien; But lowly and simple, In courage serene.

Bring meekly, before him, The faith of a child: Bow down and adore him, With heart undefiled.

966. L. M. Miss Carey.

Light and Darkness.

1 Our Father, when beside the tomb We mourn the unconscious dead below, Thy angels come amid the gloom, With solace for our doubt and woe.

And looking through the shades of death To that bright land where none can die, How clearly then the eye of faith Beholds the portals of the sky!

2 And they whose lives serenely even In pleasure's flowery way have kept, Have never known the love of heaven, As they whose souls have mourned and wept!

For stricken by the hand of woe, The soul must seek a Father's love, And they who weep can only know What healing balm is found above!

3 And one repentant hour of tears, Of sweet communion and of prayer, Is worth a thousand, thousand years Where pleasure's thoughtless children are!

And O, if ever man below Draws nearer to the eternal throne, 'Tis when his soul, subdued by woe, Seeks refuge with its G.o.d above!

967. L. M. Sir J. E. Smith.

"It is I, be not afraid."

1 When Power Divine, in mortal form, Hushed with a word the raging storm, In soothing accents Jesus said, "Lo, it is I!--be not afraid."

2 So, when in silence nature sleeps, And his lone watch the mourner keeps, One thought, shall every pang remove-- Trust, feeble man, thy Maker's love.

3 Blessed be the voice that breathes from heaven, To every heart in sunder riven, When love, and joy, and hope are fled, "Lo it is I!--be not afraid."

968. L. M. Bowring.

Joy after Sorrow.

1 As, when the deluge-waves were gone, Hills, plains, and vales in freshness burst, And nature's earliest rainbow shone On scenes more lovely than the first,

2 Loosed from the ark, a heavenly dove, The promise-branch of olive bore,-- Pledge of returning peace and love That beamed more brightly than before:--