Liebe," of a part of which we submit the following rather as a paraphrase than a translation :

O Thou Love of my Beloved

Love beyond all human ken,
Which my blessed Master moved

To assume the form of men-
Love which with sweet pity blending

Brought Him here to bleed and die
Him from plains of bliss descending

Brought to dark Gethsemane :

Love which when by men forsaken

Loving ever, loved them yet-
Love which by God's wrath unshaken

Braved the storms of Olivet-
Love which its own will surrendered

To the Father's love supreme-
And its blood's rich treasure tendered

Fallen creatures to redeem :

Love which with a heart unshrinking

Shame and pain bore to the last,
Love which when in weakness sinking,

Unto death continued fast:
Love which ever keeps on loving

While the life-blood's in the heart-
Love which mutely tells its loving

When the soul and body part:

Love which thus did suffer for me,

And upon the accursed tree
Lifted wrath divine from o'er me,

Can I think too much of Thee?
Never be my love diminished,

Ever be Thy sufferings blest,
Till at last, the struggle finished,

Sink I to my Saviour's rest!

So much for German hymnology, taking the word in its proper sense. It is a topic of great interest, as is evidenced by the immense popularity of the “Lyra Germanica," and the "Hymns from the Land of Luther.” It is a topic which we must take a future occasion to so far examine as to enable us to follow German religious poetry down to its present period of full lyrical power. One branch of it, however-a branch which the translators before us have passed over—we can not but pause for a moment to notice. It is that of the descriptive lyrical, a form which in our own language is rare, unless it be among writers of the pantheistic or merely humanitarian schools. (The chief exception we know of is Montgomery's “A poor way-faring Man of Grief.") As an illustration of this we have translated the following from Schubart:


The beggar on his lonely bed

In wetchedness is dying,
And yet, effulgent on his head

A crown divine is lying;
Come, quiet earth and silent grave,

His limbs forsaken cover;
He lays on you his wanderer's staff,

His pilgrimage is over.

On riches, honor, pleasures, strife,

No trust of his is centered;
He hastens naked from this life,

As naked it he entered:
A Christian man he dies in bliss,

When kings may die forsaken;
A treasure beyond price is his,

A faith in Christ unshaken.

Rough is the bier on which he lies,

On pauper help depending;
No funeral pomps for him arise,

No purchased tears descending;
Into the common earth his frame

In careless haste is hurried,
And in his grave obscure, his name

Is now forever buried.

Yet God for His great day of grace

Is that poor name retaining,
The mute entreaties of that face

Not, like mankind, disdaining;
Him whom the princes of the land

On earth were coldly spurning,
Will soon be at his God's right hand

In seraph glory burning.

My God! if 'tis Thy wise decree

That here in want I languish,
May I, like Lazarus, in Thee

Find comfort in my anguish;
May angels bear my soul like his,

From this poor world of sorrow,
To endless plains of heavenly bliss,

To an eternal morrow.*

We can not pass from this topic without giving, from an unknown translator, the following exquisite rendering of a poem

* Observe the humanitarian paraphrase of the above, in the Pauper's Drive, by Thomas Noel.

“There's a grim one-horse hearse, in a jolly round trot;

To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs,
And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings:

"Rattle his bones over the stones,
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns.'

“Oh! where are the mourners ? alas! there are none;

He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone;
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man
To the grave with his carcass, as fast as you can!

Rattle his bones over the stones,

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns.'
“What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!.

The whip, how it cracks, and the wheels, how they spin!
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled-
The pauper, at length, makes a noise in the world!

Rattle his bones over the stones,
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns.'

“Poor pauper defunct I he has made some approach

To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach;
He's taking a drive in his carriage, at last,
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.

*Rattle his bones over the stones,
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns.'

“But a truce to this strain, for my soul it is sad,

To think that a heart in humanity clad,
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.

Bear softly his bones over the stones,
Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns."

on this same point by an author, whose works have only occasionally reached the English eye:


Translated from Chamisso.
Among yon lines her hands have laden,

A laundress with white hair appears,
Alert as many a youthful maiden,

Spite of her five and seventy years;
Bravely she won those white hairs, still

Eating the bread hard toil obtained her,
And laboring truly to fulfill

The duties to which God ordained her.

Once she was young and full of gladness,

She loved and hoped, was wooed and won ;
Then came the matron's cares—the sadness

No loving heart on earth may shun.
Three babes she bore her mate; she prayed

Beside his sick-bed-he was taken-
She saw him in the church-yard laid,

Yet kept her faith and hope unshaken.

The task her little ones of feeding

She met unfaltering from that hour;
She taught them thrift and honest breeding,

Her virtues were their worldly dower.
To seek employment, one by one,

Forth with her blessing they departed,
But she was in the world alone-

Alone and old, but still high-hearted.
With frugal forethought, self-denying,

She gathered coin, and fax she bought,
And many a night her spindle flying

Good store of fine-spun thread she wrought.
The thread was fashioned in the loom;

She brought it home, and calmly seated
To work with not a thought of gloom,

Her decent grave-clothes she completed.
She looks on them with fond elation ;

They are her wealth, her treasure rare,
Her age's pride and consolation,

Hoarded with all a miser's care.
She dons the sark each Sabbath day

To hear the Word that faileth never;
Well pleased she lays it then away

Till she shall sleep in it forever!

Would that my spirit witness bore me

That, like this woman, I had done
The work my Master put before me

Duly from morn till set of sun!
Would that life's cup had been by me

Quaffed in such wise and happy measure,
And that I too, might finally

Look on my shroud with such meek pleasure !

We pass from the German school to that of the English. The collections we have placed at the head of this article, fall, it will be noticed, under three heads, which may be designated as the ecclesiastical, the devotional, and the æsthetic.

Of the first of this—those designed for public or social worship—that lately presented by the Evangelical Knowledge Society has peculiar merits. It is framed on a Catholic basis, and includes not merely those hymns which have been peculiarly connected with the evangelical revival of England and America-for example, those of Newton, of Cowper, and of Toplady—but those which have roused the Christian heart of all ages, such as the hymns :

"Jesus, the very thought of Thee," by St. Bernard;

“Thou, O my Saviour, Thou didst me,” by Francis Xavier; and that already noticed,

"O sacred head, now wounded," by Paul Gerhardt.

One suggestion we may be permitted to make in reference to a future edition, and that is, that the translation of the Dies Iræ in the text, which strikes us as heavy and unrhythmical, give way to that beginning :

“Day of wrath, 0 day of mourning!
See once more the cross returning

Heaven and earth to ashes burning!
Under the head of devotional hymns, we may enumerate
Mr. Pratt's Hymns for the Closet, Mr. Ryle's collection, Mr.
Bonar's Hymns of Faith and Hope, and Miss Warner's Hymns

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