again, to the instances of some who seem to have been deficient in neither.

As a field preacher, the courage, the self-possession, the temper, and the tact (and the same praise is due to his brother) which he displayed, place Wesley in a position inferior to none with whom it would be reasonable to compare him. After setting off from the account his constitutional intrepidity, his moral courage was that which is characteristic of a perfect benevolence, and which in the height of danger thinks only of the rescue of its objects. When encountering the ruffianism of mobs and of magistrates, he showed a firmness, as well as a guileless skill, which, if the martyr's praise might admit of such an adjunct, was graced with the dignity and courtesy of the gentleman.

THE FOUNDERS OF METHODISM.

It would not be easy, or not possible, to name any company of Christian preachers, from the apostolic age downward to our own times, whose proclamation of the gospel has been in a larger proportion of instances effective, or which has been carried over so large a surface with so much power or with so uniform a re sult. No such harvest of souls is recorded to have been gathered by any body of contemporary men since the first century. An attempt to compute the converts to Methodistic Christianity would be a fruitless as well as presumptuous undertaking, from which we draw back; but we must not call in question, what is so variously and fully attested, that an unimpeachable Christian profession was the fruit of the Methodistic preaching in instances that must be computed by hundreds of thousands, throughout Great Britain and in America.

Until the contrary can be clearly proved, it may be affirmed that no company of men of whose labors and doctrine we have any sufficient notice, has gone forth with a creed more distinctly orthodox, or more exempt from admixture of the doctrinal feculence of an earlier time. None have stood forward more free than these were from petty solicitudes concerning matters of observance, to which, whether they were to be upheld or to be denounced, an exaggerated importance was attributed. None have confined themselves more closely to those principal subjects which bear directly upon the relationship of man to God,-as immortal, accountable, guilty, and redeemed. If we are tempted to complain of the unvaried complexion of the Methodistic teaching, it is the uniformity which results from a close adherence to the very rudiments of the gospel. Uniformity or sameness of aspect, as it may be the coloring of dulness and of death, so may it spring from simplicity and power; but can it be

a question to which of these sources we should attribute that undiversified breadth which is the characteristic of Methodism ?

To dispute the claims of the Methodistic company to be thus regarded, on the ground of any errors of an incidental kind that may have attended their teaching, or of the follies or delinquencies that may be chargeable upon any of them, individually, would be a frivolous as well as an ungenerous mode of proceeding. Need it be said that these Methodists were men of like passions with ourselves"? and such, too, were those who, in the apostolic age, carried the gospel throughout the Roman world, and beyond it. Taken in the mass, the one company of men was as wise as the other, not wiser; as holy,-not more holy. If it be affirmed that the Christian worthies of some remote time were, as a class of men, of a loftier stature in virtue and piety than these with whom we have now to do, let the evidence on which such an assumption could be made to rest be brought forward this can never be done; and the supposition itself should be rejected as a puerile superstition.

JOHN KEBLE, 1789-1866.

REV. JOHN KEBLE was born in the year 1789, and was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where he took his degree with high honor in 1810. In 1813 he was appointed to the vicarage of Hursley, near Winchester, which he held to the close of his life. From 1831 to 1842 he filled the Professorship of Poetry in the University of Oxford. He died on the 29th of March, 1866. Such are the bare outlines of his quiet, beautiful, uneventful life.

As an author Mr. Keble is known for his theological writings, chiefly Sermons, but more especially for his Sacred Lyric Poetry, which is certainly among the most beautiful of this century. In 1827 appeared his Christian Year, of which the Christian public of England has shown its high estimation by demanding more than eighty editions up to 1865; and it has also passed through many editions in this country. His other poetical works are Child's Christian Year, Lyra Innocentium, and The Psalms of David in English Verse; while many of the late compilations of sacred poetry are enriched by productions from his pen.1

1In the Lyra Apostolica his poems are distinguished by the Greek letter y To the Tracts for the Times he contributed Nos. 4, 13, 40, 52, and 89. He also wrote the able article

on Sacred Poetry in the thirty-second volume of the Quarterly Review. In The Guardian of April 4, 1866, appeared the following beautiful

sonnet:

IN MEMORIAM J. K.

One star of song from out our firmament
Hath pass'd away; and, lo! a vacant space
Where once rich music flow'd from lips of grace
And soothed the murmurs of our discontent:--
Silent the voice that once its sweetness sent
Through all the windings of the Christian year,

MORNING.

"His compassions fail not. They are new every morning."-LAMENT. iii. 22, 23.

Hues of the rich unfolding morn,

That, ere the glorious sun be born,
By some soft touch invisible

Around his path are taught to swell ;

Why waste your treasures of delight
Upon our thankless, joyless sight,
Who, day by day, to sin awake,
Seldom of heaven and you partake?

Oh! timely happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!
Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new!1

New every morning is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove;

Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and power, and thought.

New mercies, each returning day,
Hover around us while we pray;
New perils past, new sins forgiven,

New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.

If on our daily course our mind

Be set, to hallow all we find,

New treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.

We need not bid, for cloister'd cell,
Our neighbor and our work farewell,
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high
For sinful man beneath the sky:

The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask;
Room to deny ourselves; a road
To bring us, daily, nearer God.

Only, O Lord, in thy dear love
Fit us for perfect rest above;
And help us, this and every day,
To live more nearly as we pray.

Or sang to lyre attuned for listening ear
Of childlike souls whose name is Innocent.
Hush, faithless grief! This Easter morning bright
Its witness bears,-nor star nor voice is gone:
That still shines clear for all who love the light:
This through far lands and ages soundeth on;
Ah! were it ours to tune our lives aright,
Nor basely fail where he hath nobly won!
EXETER, 1866.

1 Rev. xxi. 5.

EVENING.

“Abide with us, for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent."-LUKE Xxiv. 29.

Sun of my soul! thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near;
Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise
To hide Thee from thy servant's eyes!

When the soft dews of kindly sleep
My wearied eyelids gently steep,
Be my last thought, how sweet to rest
Forever on my Saviour's breast.

Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live:
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.

Thou Framer of the light and dark,
Steer through the tempest thine own ark:
Amid the howling wintry sea

We are in port if we have Thee.

If some poor wandering child of thine
Have spurn'd to-day the voice divine,
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin;
Let him no more lie down in sin.

Watch by the sick: enrich the poor
With blessings from thy boundless store:
Be every mourner's sleep to-night
Like infants' slumbers, pure and light.

Come near and bless us when we wake,
Ere through the world our way we take;
Till in the ocean of thy love

We lose ourselves in heaven above.

THE DOVE ON THE CROSS.

"Nevertheless, I tell you the truth; it is expedient for you that I go away; for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you; but, if I depart, I will send him unto you."JOHN xvi. 7.

My Saviour, can it ever be

That I should gain by losing Thee?

The watchful mother tarries nigh,

Though sleep have closed her infant's eye;
For should he wake, and find her gone,
She knows she could not bear his moan.

But I am weaker than a child,

And Thou art more than mother dear:
Without Thee heaven were but a wild:
How can I live without Thee here?

""Tis good for you that I should go,
You lingering yet a while below".
'Tis thine own gracious promise, Lord!
Thy saints have proved the faithful word,

The days of hope and prayer are past,
The day of comfort dawns at last,
The everlasting gates again

*

Roll back, and, lo! a royal train—
From the far depth of light once more
The floods of glory earthward pour;
They part like shower-drops in mid air,
But ne'er so soft fell noontide shower,
Nor evening rainbow gleam'd so fair
To weary swains in parchéd bower.
Swiftly and straight each tongue of flame
Through cloud and breeze unwavering came,
And darted to its place of rest

On some meek brow, of Jesus blest.
Nor fades it yet, that living gleam,

And still those lambent lightnings stream;
Where'er the Lord is, there are they;

In every heart that gives them room,
They light his altar every day,

Zeal to inflame, and vice consume,

Then, fainting soul, arise and sing;
Mount, but be sober on the wing;
Mount up, for heaven is won by prayer,
Be sober, for thou art not there;
Till death the weary spirit free,
Thy God hath said, 'Tis good for thee
To walk by faith and not by sight:
Take it on trust a little while;
Soon shalt thou read the mystery right
In the full sunshine of His smile.

Or if thou yet more knowledge crave,
Ask thine own heart, that willing slave
To all that works thee wo or harm:
Shouldst thou not need some mighty charın
To win thee to thy Saviour's side,

Though He had deign'd with thee to bide?
The Spirit must stir the darkling deep,

The Dove must settle on the cross,

Else we should all sin on or sleep

With Christ in sight, turning our gain to loss.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD.

Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies,
To fill the heart's fond view!