POETRY.
A MOAN IN CHURCH.
[WRITTEN DURING SERMON.] Duu-ssarnaso,leaden-eyed, the preacher stands, And holds the sacred volume in his hands.
No touch of genius lightens up his face ; No kindly accent speeds the word of grace. '
He drawls and maunders in unending drone t 0 ! for some lightning-flash, some thunder-tone, Something to show life yet remains on earth,
Sorrow or joy, wild laughter, madness, mirth,—
Something for heart and mind to feel and kuow, Not these sad phrases, following row on row.
Our souls refuse the weary watch to keep, And feel "God giveth his beloved sleep."
Grant, Lord, some help from heaven, some spirit-touch, Now that we feel so little, hear so much; And, as a set-off to our sins' amount, Pat this day's suffering down to our account.
Bradford. J. ARTHUR BINNS.
Previous page
