I am ready not to do,
At last, at last.

My half-day's work is done,
And this is all my part;
I give a patient God
My patient heart.

And grasp His banner still

Though all its blue be dim,
These stripes no less than stars
Lead after Him.

XVIII. -Heaven.

149-JERUSALEM, MY HAPPY HOME.

THE famous song made by F. B. P. at the end of the sixteenth century begins :

Hierusalem, my happy home;

When shall I come to thee:

When shall my sorrowes have an end,
Thy ioys when shall I see.

There are twenty-six verses, some of them very quaint. The most popular modern version "given in the text " is believed to be by Montgomery.

ERUSALEM, my happy home;

JE

Name ever dear to me:

When shall my labours have an end
In joy and peace and thee!

When shall these eyes thy heaven-built walls

And pearly gates behold,

Thy bulwarks with salvation strong,

Ánd streets of shining gold?

There happier bowers than Eden's bloom,
Nor sin, nor sorrow know;

Blest seats, through rude and stormy scenes,
I onward press to you.

Why should I shrink from pain and woe,
Or feel at death dismay?
I've Canaan's goodly land in view,
And realms of endless day.

Apostles, martyrs, prophets there,
Around my Saviour stand;
And soon my friends in Christ below
Will join the glorious band.
Jerusalem, my happy home,
My soul still pants for thee:
Then shall my labours have an end,
When I thy joys shall see.

TUNE- -"SOUTHWELL" OR "BEULAH."

150-THERE IS A LAND OF PURE
DELIGHT.

WHETHER Watts wrote this at Southampton, inspired by a view of the Isle of Wight or of the New Forest, is uncertain. But whatever the scene that suggested these familiar stanzas, they have helped myriads to cross with steadier nerve the swelling flood, on the brink of which we shivering stand and fear to launch away.

HERE is a land of pure delight,

Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.
There everlasting spring abides
And never-withering flowers;
Death, like a narrow sea, divides
This heavenly land from ours.

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood
Stand dressed in living green;
So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan rolled between.

But timorous mortals start and shrink
To cross this narrow sea,
And linger, shivering on the brink,
And fear to launch away.

Oh, could we make our doubts remove,
Those gloomy doubts that rise:
And see the Canaan that we love
With unbeclouded eyes:

Could we but climb where Moses stood,

And view the landscape o'er,

Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood,
Should fright us from the shore.

TUNE-"Beulah."

BERNARD OF CLUNY'S "SWEET AND BLESSED COUNTRY."

OUT of three thousand lines of a satire written by Bernard, a monk of Cluny, in the twelfth century, Dr. Neale has extracted three hymns, which, in his free translation, have become extremely popular. It is significant of the difference between the centuries that the twelfthcentury satirist is overwhelmed by the awe of heaven and the horror of hell, whereas his nineteenth-century adapter sings exultantly of heaven alone.

151-BRIEF LIFE IS HERE OUR PORTION.

DRIEF life is here our portion,

B

Brief sorrow, short-lived care:
The life that knows no ending,
The tearless life, is there.

O happy retribution !

Short toil, eternal rest; For mortals and for sinners A mansion with the blest!

There grief is turned to pleasure,
Such pleasure, as below
No human voice can utter,

No human heart can know.
And now we fight the battle,
But then shall wear the crown
Of full and everlasting

And passionless renown.

And now we watch and struggle,
And now we live in hope,
And Sion, in her anguish,

With Babylon must cope.
But He whom now we trust in
Shall then be seen and known,
And they that know and see Him
Shall have Him for their own.

The morning shall awaken,
The shadows shall decay,
And each true-hearted servant
Shall shine as doth the day:
Yes; God, our King and Portion,
In fulness of His grace,
We then shall see for ever,
And worship face to face.

O sweet and blessed country,
The home of God's elect!
O sweet and blessed country
That eager hearts expect!

Jesus, in mercy bring us
To that dear land of rest;
Who art, with God the Father,
And Spirit, ever blest.

TUNE "ST. ALPHEGE,"

152-FOR THEE, O DEAR, DEAR COUNTRY.

OR thee, O dear, dear country!

Fine eyes their vigils keep;

For very love beholding

Thy happy name, they weep: The mention of thy glory

Is unction to the breast,

And medicine in sickness,

And love, and life, and rest.

O one, O only mansion!
O Paradise of joy!

Where tears are ever banished,
And smiles have no alloy.
With jaspers glow thy bulwarks,
Thy streets with emeralds blaze;
The sardius and the topaz
Unite in thee their rays.

Thine ageless walls are bonded
With amethyst unpriced;
The saints build up its fabric,
And the corner-stone is Christ.
The cross is all thy splendour,
The Crucified thy praise;
His laud and benediction

Thy ransomed people raise.