THE HOUR OF PRAYER

HUGH MORETON FREWEN.

In that intense and spiritual calm
I seemed to stand upon a little hill;
The world's unrest of sorrow and alarm
Sank into silent valleys and was still;
The dissonance and claim of mortal will
Merged into concord; in that one supreme
All-glorious moment, every sense of ill
Was swept away on some supernal stream.
And conscious thought purged of its carnal dream.

O thou that hast the spirit of my song!
Let us throw off the tyrannies of sense,
And breathe a gentle thought o'er pain and wrong,
Making denial of each vain pretense:
Conscious of beauty, love, and innocence,
Walking the paths of Eden undefiled.
Until the day when we. ascended hence.
Do grace the perfect mansions of the mild.
Where reason rules each God-reflected child.

Oh. turn thy weary footsteps to the dawn!
And in the silence of thine heart forswear
Those evanescent lures that make thee mourn,
The million lights and perfume-laden air—
Turn from the glittering madness of despair!
Man. God's idea, is not and never can be vile;
Embraced by Spirit, he is pure and fair.
Let man's true birthright, lost to thee awhile,
Be as the mother's kiss, the infant's waking smile!

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