SUPERSTITION.

THEN Paul stood in the midst of Mars' hill, and said, Ye men of Athens, I perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious.—Acts, xvii. 22.

'TIS Superstition! that

Dread bolt that seems to him and thee the home
Of torture, is the earth, the beauteous earth,
Created by thy God, a perfect thing,

All loveliness, and life, and light, to be
The dwelling-place of thee and thine-but this,
This ignorant, besotted fool, sees but
In that beneficent gift, where all is formed
For happiness, a scene of punishment
And death; turns every joy to bitterness,
Reproaches God with never-ending fears,
And, like a thankless wretch, dashes aside
The cup of happiness the Almighty hand
Gives to his lips, when he might know his praise
And gratitude can but be shown by free
And innocent enjoyment; not content
That his own soul must suffer misery,

He would crush down his fellow-beings with
The weight of his own gloom. His voice shall fill
The earth with one loud cry; at his command,
The homes of thousands shall be desolate;
At his command, fathers shall give their sons
To be devoured by lingering fire, or stretched
Upon a wheel, whose racking torture tears
The victim limb-meal, and then lift their hands,
Their impious hands, to heaven, and call the deed
Of blasphemy a holy act. Weak fools!

To think it pleaseth Him who made them in
His image that that image should be torn,
Defaced, and blotted.

Constantia Louisa Riddell.

But hence, far hence be ostentatious pomp,
And superstition's tinsel.

Fell Superstition leads

Samuel Hayes.

Her horrid train, engendered in the womb
Of her own mad imaginings. A. Alexander.

WHOSO eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day.

For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed.--John, vi. 54, 55.

The Lord Jesus, the same night in which He was betrayed, took bread.

And when He had given thanks, He brake it, and said, Take eat; this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.

After the same manner also He took the cup, when He had supped, saying, This cup is the New Testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.

For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do show the Lord's death till He come.-I. Corinthians, xi. 23, 24, 25, 26.

HIM first to love, great right and reason is,
Who first to us our life and being gave,
And after, when we fared had amiss,

Us wretches from the second death did save;
And last, the Food of Life, which now we have,
Even He Himself, in His dear Sacrament,
To feed our hungry souls, unto us lent.

Then next to love our brethren, that were made
Of that self-mould, and that self-Maker's hand.

I love to mingle there

In sympathy of praise and prayer,
And listen to that Living Word,

Which breathes the Spirit of the Lord:
Or, at the mystic table placed,

Those eloquent mementoes taste
Of Thee, Thou suffering Lamb divine,
Thy soul-refreshing bread and wine;
Sweet viands, given us to assuage
The faintness of the pilgrimage.

Spenser.

Thomas Grinfield. And oft your willing steps renew, around the sacred

board,

And break the bread, and pour the wine, in memory of your Lord:

To drink with me the grape's first juice, to you shall

yet be given.

Fresh from the deathless vine that blooms in blest Thomas Dale.

abodes of Heaven.

Bread of Heaven, on Thee we feed,
For Thy flesh is meat indeed;
Ever let our souls be fed

With this true and Living Bread.

Vine of Heaven, Thy blood supplies
This blest cup of sacrifice;

Lord, Thy wounds our healing give;
To Thy cross we look and live.

Day by day, with strength supplied,
Through the life of Him who died,
Lord of life, O, let us be
Rooted, grafted, built on Thee!

Bow thee to earth, and from thee cast
All stubbornness of human will;
Then dare to drink the Sacred Cup
Thy God and Saviour died to fill.

Conder.

Come with thy guilt new-washed in tears,
Thy spirit raised in faith above;
Then drink, and so thy soul shall live,
Thy Saviour's blood,-thy Saviour's love.
Miss Landon.

Break to us each, this day, our daily bread,
Nor let earth's fading food alone be given;
Feed us upon THY WORD,-in Christ our Head,
To find Thy Peace, the Living Bread from Heaven.
H. H. Weld.

For say, can fancy, fond to weave the tale
Of bliss ideal, feign more genuine joy
Than thine, Believer, when the man of God
Gives to thy hand the consecrated cup,
Blessed memorial of a Saviour's love!
Glowing with zeal, the humble penitent
Approacheth: Faith her fostering radiance points
Full on his contrite heart: Hope cheers his steps,
And Charity, the fairest in the train

Of Christian virtues, swells his heaving breast
With love unbounded.

Thomas Zouch.

So is it with true Christian hearts;
Their mutual share in Jesus' blood
An everlasting bond imparts

Of holiest brotherhood:

Oh! might we all our lineage prove,
Give and forgive, do good and love,
By soft endearments in kind strife
Lightening the load of daily life!

Thou who didst taste
Of man's infirmities, yet bar his sins
From thine unspotted soul, forsake us not,
In our temptations, but so guide our feet,
That our Last Supper in this world may lead
To that immortal banquet by thy side,
Where there is no betrayer.

Keble.

Mrs. Sigourney.

By chain yet stronger must the soul be tied:
One duty more, last stage of this ascent,
Brings to thy food, memorial Sacrament,
The offspring, haply at the parents' side;
But not till they, with all that do abide
In Heaven, have lifted up their hearts to laud
And magnify the glorious name of God,
Fountain of Grace, whose Son for sinners died,
Here must my song in timid reverence pause:
But shrink not, ye, whom to the saving rite
The Altar calls; come early, under laws
That can secure for you a path of light

Through gloomiest shade; put on, nor dread its weight,
Armour divine, and conquer in your cause,

Here He led

Wordsworth.

From the Last Supper, when the hymn was sung,
His few grieved followers out, in that drear night,
When, in the garden, on the mountain's slope,
His agony wrung forth the crimson drops!
While these sad pictures hang upon thy sides,
Thou consecrated height, dissolve the heart
In pious sorrow!

Hannah F. Gould.

SUPPLICATION.

I CRIED to Thee, O Lord; and unto the Lord I made supplication. -Psalm xxx. 8.

Let my supplication come before Thee: deliver me according to Thy word.-Psalm exix. 170.

O my God incline Thine ear, and hear; for we do not present our supplications before Thee for our righteousnesses, but for Thy great mercies. -Daniel, ix. 18.

Он, when Thy last frown shall proclaim
The flocks of goats to folds of flame;
And all Thy lost sheep found shall be,
Let "Come, ye blessed" then call me.

Oh, hear a suppliant heart all crush'd
And crumbled into contrite dust;

My Hope, my Fear, my Judge, my Friend,
Take charge of me, and of my end.

Like the low murmur of the secret stream,

Crashaw.

Which through dark alders winds its shaded way, My suppliant voice is heard. Ah, do not deem That on vain toys I throw my hours away.

In the recesses of the forest vale,

On the wild mountains, on the verdant sod,
When the fresh breezes of the morn prevail,
I wander lone, communing with my God.

From lowest depths of woe
To God I send my cry;
Lord hear my supplicating voice,
And graciously reply!

My soul with patience waits

For Thee, the living Lord;

My hopes are on Thy promise built,
Thy never-failing word!

Let Israel trust in God;

No bounds His mercy knows;

Beckford.

The plenteous source and spring from whence

Eternal succour flows.

Brady and Tate.