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Linked with the names of holy men, Martyr, or saint, or brother dear; Some parted, ne'er to meet again,

Some still our fellow- pilgrims here. Linked with that Name of names, the name Of Him who bought us with his blood Who bore for us the wrath and shame, The Virgin's Son, the Christ of God.

THE PRAYER.

THE PRAYER.

FETCH me the lightning from yon frowning cloud,

With fiery force to break or melt this heart, A heart all earthly, foolish, vain, and proud: In unbelief and hate that bids its God depart.

Fetch me a beam from yon clear star of night; Or yet a warmer ray from day's bright sun, To kindle into heat, and glow, and light, This soul of gloom and death, whose day seems scarce begun.

Fetch me a drop from yon translucent lake, Or, farther up, from yon pure mountain- well, These lips to cool, this feverish thirst to slake, This weary frame to freshen, these fierce fires to quell.