MRS. ANNE FLOWERDEW.

MRS. ANNE FLOWERDEW published by subscription, in 1803, a duodecimo volume, entitled "Poems on Moral and Religious Subjects." This work reached a second edition in 1804. In 1811, the volume was re-issued, with the addition of the "Harvest Hymn," which we have subjoined. Mrs. Flowerdew kept a boarding and educational establishment for young ladies, first at Islington, and afterwards at Bury St. Edmunds. In the preface to the first edition she writes, "The poems which are now presented to the public eye were written at different periods of life; some, indeed, at a very early age, and others under the severe pressure of misfortune, when my pen has frequently given that relief which could not be derived from other employments."

HARVEST HYMN.

FOUNTAIN of mercy, God of love!
How rich Thy bounties are!
The rolling seasons, as they move,
Proclaim Thy constant care.

When, in the bosom of the earth,

The sower hid the grain,

Thy goodness mark'd its secret birth,

And sent the early rain.

The spring's sweet influence, Lord, was Thine;

The plants in beauty grew;
Thou gav'st refulgent suns to shine,

And mild, refreshing dew.

These various mercies from above
Matured the swelling grain;
A yellow harvest crowns Thy love,
And plenty fills the plain.

Seed-time and harvest, Lord, alone
Thou dost on man bestow;

Let him not then forget to own
From whom his blessings flow!

Fountain of love! our praise is Thine;
To Thee our songs we'll raise,

And all created nature join

In sweet, harmonious praise.

CHARLES LAWRENCE FORD.

CHARLES LAWRENCE FORD is the son of a distinguished artist in Bath. He was educated at Bath, and is B.A. of the University of London. Six hymns, from his pen, are inserted in the "Lyra Anglicana," edited by the Rev. Robert H. Baynes. He has also contributed to Mr. Baynes' collection of "English Lyrics."

MARAH.*

Exodus xv. 23.

GOD sends us bitter, that the sweet,

By absence known, may sweeter prove;
As dark for light, as cold for heat
Brings greater love.

God sends us bitter, as to show

He can both sweet and bitter send;
That both the might and love we know
Of our great Friend.

He sends us bitter, lest too gay

We wreathe around our heads the rose,
And count our right what Heaven each day
As alms bestows.

God sends us bitter, lest we fail

That bitterest grief aright to prize,

Which did for all the world avail
In His own eyes.

God sends us bitter, all our sins
Embittering; yet so kindly sends,
The path that bitterness begins
In sweetness ends.

He sends us bitter, that heaven's sweet,
Earth's bitter o'er, may sweeter taste,-
As Canaan's ground to Israel's feet,
For that great waste.

*From "English Lyrics." London, 1865, 8vo.

Our passions murmur and rebel,
But faith cries out unto the Lord,
And prayer by patience worketh well
Its own reward:

For if our heart the lesson draws

Aright, by bitter chastening taught, And keep His statutes and His laws, Even as we ought,

He openeth our eyes to see

(Eyes that our pride of heart had sealed), The sweetness of life's heavenly tree, And grief is healed;

And lo before us in the way

We view the fountains and the palms, And drink, and pitch our tents, and stay Singing sweet psalms.

STRENGTH IN WEAKNESS.*

FATHER, for Thy kindest word
Thankful songs to Thee I sing;
Sick at heart with hope deferred,
All my cause to Thee I bring.
Sweet the sound I hear from Thee,-
Cast thy burden upon Me.

As a father, bending low,
Listens to a lisping child,

So to me Thy pity show,

By the world and sin beguiled;
Holy is Thy law and just;

Yet remember I am dust.

Spare me, Thou who lov'st to spare!
Gently on me lay Thy hand;
Grasp the bruisèd reed with care;
Let the smoking flax be fanned;
Firm my faltering steps uphold;
Tried, let me come forth like gold.

*From "Lyra Anglicana." London, 1865, 8vo.

O remember IIim who died,
With His life my soul to save:
Let me clasp the Crucified,

Till I reach the awful grave;
Then, the light affliction o'er,
Heaven is mine for evermore.

CHRISTINA FORSYTH.

CHRISTINA FORSYTH was the sixth daughter of the late Thomas and Jane Hamilton Forsyth. She was born at Liverpool, in 1825. From her childhood, she was deeply impressed with religious truth, and devoted to her Saviour. Possessed of a delicate constitution, she was for several years confined to her bed-chamber. Latterly her illness was attended with much acute suffering, but she bore her affliction not only without a murmur but with unvarying cheerfulness. She seemed to think always of others, and never of herself, and by the singular sweetness of her disposition she won the love of all who knew her. Gifted with superior abilities, she composed a considerable number of sacred lyrics, which were collected into a volume, and published after her decease, under the title "Hymns by C. F.," London, 1351. With consent of the owner of the copyright, Mr. C. Caswell, of Birmingham, we have transferred one of the compositions to our pages.

Miss Forsyth died at Hastings, on the 18th March, 1859. Of her brothers, the late Rev. Join Hamilton Forsyth is known by his sermons and interesting memoir. Her two surviving brothers hold posts of honour. The eldest, William Forsyth, Esq., Q.C., lately sat in Parliament as member for Cambridge; and the youngest, Douglas Forsyth, Esq., C.B., is a commissioner of the Punjab in India.

"HIMSELF HATH DONE IT."

"HIMSELF hath done it" all.-Oh how those words
Should hush to silence every murmuring thought!
"Himself hath done it,"-He who loves me best,
He who my soul with His own blood hath bought.

"Himself hath done it :" Can it then be aught

Than full of wisdom, full of tenderest love?
Not one unneeded sorrow will He send,

To teach this wandering heart no more to rove.

"Himself hath done it :" Yes, although severe

May seem the stroke, and bitter be the cup, 'Tis His own hand that holds it, and I know

He'll give me grace to drink it meekly up.

"Himself hath done it :" Oh, no arm but His
Could e'er sustain beneath earth's dreary lot;
But while I know He's doing all things well,
My heart His loving-kindness questions not.

"Himself hath done it :" He who's search'd me through
Sees how I cleave to earth's ensnaring ties!
And so He breaks each reed on which my soul
Too much for happiness and joy relies.

"Himself hath done it :" He would have me see
What broken cisterns human friends must prove;
That I may turn and quench my burning thirst
At His own fount of ever-living love.

"Himself hath done it :" then I fain would say, "Thy will in all things evermore be done;" E'en though that will remove whom best I love, While Jesus lives I cannot be alone.

Himself hath done it :" precious, precious words; "Himself," my Father, Saviour, Brother, Friend, Whose faithfulness no variation knows,

Who, having loved me, loves me to the end.

And when, in His eternal presence blest,
I at His feet my crown immortal cast,
I'll gladly own with all His ransomed saints
"Himself hath done it"-all, from first to last.