Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is
For gift or grace surpassing this :
"He giveth His beloved sleep?"

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved;

The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep; The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse; The monarch's crown, to light the brows? "He giveth His beloved sleep."

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no power to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when "He giveth His beloved sleep."

His dews drop mutely on the hill,

His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men toil and reap,

More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,

"He giveth His beloved sleep."

While Mrs. Browning's sacred poems show the thoughts and feelings of a pure poetic genius, it has been found difficult to popularize them as hymns either in America or Great Britain.

JANE FOX CREWDSON

UMBERED with the large company

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of women who "learned in suffering what they taught in song," is Mrs. Crewdson, who was the daughter of George Fox, of Cornwall, England. In 1836 she was married to Thomas Crewdson of Manchester. Invalided in early womanhood, her years, though full of pathos and suffering, were one sweet song to the day she passed to that sublimer life, at the age of fifty-four years.

Mrs. Crewdson's poetical works consist of four volumes, and it is said that all her productions were written between paroxysms of pain. of pain. Many of her hymns are admirable, both in poetic beauty and spiritual feeling, yet a very small number of her pieces have found a place in church hymnals. One of her finest hymns is the following, which breathes the true spirit of peace and thankfulness:

O Thou whose bounty fills my cup
With every blessing meet!

I give Thee thanks for every drop-
The bitter and the sweet.

I praise Thee for the desert road,
And for the river-side;

For all Thy goodness hath bestowed,
And all Thy grace denied.

I thank Thee for both smile and frown,
And for the gain and loss;

I praise Thee for the future crown,
And for the present cross.

I thank Thee for the wing of love,
Which stirred my worldly nest;
And for the stormy clouds which drove
The flutterer to Thy breast.

I bless Thee for the glad increase,
And for the waning joy;

And for this strange, this settled peace,
Which nothing can destroy.

The patience with which Mrs. Crewdson carried the burden of pain, and found joy in sorrow, is exemplified in a pathetic hymn of two stanzas which was written. only a short time before her death:

ΑΓ

O Saviour, I have nought to plead
In earth beneath or heaven above,
But just my own exceeding need
And Thy exceeding love.

The need will soon be past and gone,
Exceeding great but quickly o'er;
The love unbought is all Thine own,
And lasts for evermore.