How sweet and awful is the place
With Christ within the doors,
While everlasting love displays
The choicest of her stores.

While all our hearts and all our songs
Join to admire the feast,
Each of us cry with thankful tongues,
" Lord, why was I a guest?

" Why was I made to hear thy voice,
And enter while there's room,
When thousands make a wretched choice,
And rather starve than come? "

'Twas the same love that spread the feast
That sweetly drew us in;
Else we had still refused to taste,
And perished in our sin.

A youth looked into the running stream,
And he sighed to be as free;
That he might visit the city's mart,
And come to the boundless sea.

And on its waters swift be borne
To countries distant, and strange;
Which he read of in books, or heard men tell,
And over the world to range.

Then he sought for a ship, and left his home,
And mother and father dear;
And he roamed the wide world from land to land,
And was gone for many a year.

He sailed where the reefs of coral grow,
He sailed by the ice-bergs cold,

What powerful Spirit lives within!
What active Angel doth inhabit here!
What heavenly light inspires my skin,
Which doth so like a Deity appear!
A living Temple of all ages, I
Within me see
A Temple of Eternity!
All Kingdoms I descry
In me.
An inward Omnipresence here
Mysteriously like His within me stands,
Whose knowledge is a Sacred Sphere

The pounded spise both tast and sent doth please;
In fadinge smoke the force doth incense showe;
The perisht kernell springeth with increase;
The lopped tree doth best and soonest growe.

Gods spice I was, and poundinge was my due;
In fadinge breath my incense favoured best;
Death was my meane my kernell to renewe;
By loppinge shott I upp to heavenly rest.

Some thinges more perfit are in their decaye,
Like sparke that going out geeves clerest light:
Such was my happe, whose dolefull dying daye
Begane my joye and termed fortunes spight.

Clorinda, when I go away,
What will thy votaries and lovers say?
Will they prize thee,
Or, like me, despise thee?
Their off'rings, or suspend, or pay,
Sure they will the cause enquire;
And, when they shall find
Thou art false and unkind,
Then from thy charmes retire,
Quench their glowing fire,
And neglect thee,
Or reject thee
And their vaine desire.

Then shalt thou all those gifts restore,
Bestowd by those that did thy power adore.
Wee'l devest thee
Of what love possest thee,

This ditty is a string of lies.
But — how the deuce did Gubbins rise?

P OTIPHAR GUBBINS , C.E.,
Stands at the top of the tree;
And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led
To the hoisting of Potiphar G.

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,
Is seven years junior to Me;
Each bridge that he makes either buckles or breaks,
And his work is as rough as he.

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,
Is coarse as a chimpanzee;
And I can't understand why you gave him your hand,
Lovely Mehitabel Lee.

Potato was deep in the dark under ground,
Tomato, above in the light.
The little Tomato was ruddy and round,
The little Potato was white.

And redder and redder she rounded above,
And paler and paler he grew,
And neither suspected a mutual love
Till they met in a Brunswick stew.

BY LI T'AI-PO

I

A pot of wine among flowers.
I alone, drinking, without a companion.
I lift the cup and invite the bright moon.
My shadow opposite certainly makes us three.
But the moon cannot drink,
And my shadow follows the motions of my body in vain.
For the briefest time are the moon and my shadow my companions.
Oh, be joyful! One must make the most of Spring.
I sing—the moon walks forward rhythmically;

Thou singest alone on the bare wintery bough
As if Spring with its leaves were around thee now;
And its voice, that was heard in the laughing rill,
And the breeze, as it whispered o'er meadow and hill,
Still fell on thine ear, as it glided along
To join the sweet tide of thine own gushing song
Sing on — though its sweetness was lost on the blast
And the storm has not heeded thy song as it passed;
Yet its music awoke in a heart that was near
A thought whose remembrance will ever prove dear —
Though the brook may be frozen, though silent its voice

When morning gilds the skies,
My heart awaking cries: May Jesus Christ be praised:
Alike at work and prayer
To him I would repair: May Jesus Christ be praised.

Whene'er the sweet church bell
Peals over hill and dell: May Jesus Christ be praised.
O hark to what it sings;
As joyously it rings: May Jesus Christ be praised.

When sleep her balm denies,
My silent spirit sighs: May Jesus Christ be praised.
When evil thoughts molest,
With this I shield my breast: May Jesus Christ be praised.

Does sadness fill my mind?