CATECHISM.

OH say not, dream not, heavenly notes To childish ears are vain,

That the young mind at random floats, And cannot reach the strain.

Dim or unheard, the words may fall,
And yet the heaven-taught mind

May learn the sacred air, and all
The harmony unwind.

Was not our Lord a little child,

Taught by degrees to pray, By father dear and mother mild Instructed day by day?

And lov'd He not of Heaven to talk

With children in His sight,

To meet them in His daily walk,

And to His arms invite?

What though around His throne of fire

The everlasting chant

Be wafted from the seraph choir

In glory jubilant?

Yet stoops He, ever pleas'd to mark
Our rude essays of love,
Faint as the pipe of wakening lark,
Heard by some twilight grove:

Yet is He near us, to survey

These bright and order'd files, Like spring-flowers in their best array, All silence and all smiles.

Save that each little voice in turn

Some glorious truth proclaims,

What sages would have died to learn,
Now taught by cottage dames.

And if some tones be false or low,

What are all prayers beneath

But cries of babes, that cannot know

Half the deep thought they breathe?

In His own words we Christ adore,
But angels, as we speak,

Higher above our meaning soar

And

Than we o'er children weak:

yet His words mean more than they,
And yet He owns their praise:

Why should we think, He turns away
From infants' simple lays?

CONFIRMATION.

THE shadow of th' Almighty's cloud
Calm on the tents of Israel lay,

While drooping paus'd twelve banners proud,
Till He arise and lead the way.

Then to the desert breeze unroll'd
Cheerly the waving pennons fly,

Lion or eagle-each bright fold

A loadstar to a warrior's eye.

So should thy champions, ere the strife,

By holy hands o'ershadow'd kneel, So, fearless for their charmed life, Bear, to the end, thy Spirit's seal.

Steady and pure as stars that beam

In middle heaven, all mist above, Seen deepest in the frozen stream :— Such is their high courageous love.

And soft as pure, and warm as bright,
They brood upon life's peaceful hour,
As if the Dove that guides their flight
Shook from her plumes a downy shower.

Spirit of might and sweetness too!

Now leading on the wars of God, Now to green isles of shade and dew Turning the waste thy people trod;

Draw, Holy Ghost, thy seven-fold veil Between us and the fires of youth; Breathe, Holy Ghost, thy freshening gale, Our fever'd brow in age to soothe.

And oft as sin and sorrow tire,

The hallow'd hour do Thou renew, When beckon'd up the awful choir

By pastoral hands, toward Thee we drew;

When trembling at the sacred rail

We hid our eyes and held our breath, Felt Thee how strong, our hearts how frail, And long'd to own Thee to the death.

For ever on our souls be trac'd

That blessing dear, that dove-like hand, A sheltering rock in Memory's waste,

O'ershadowing all the weary land.