DANIEL IN THE DEN OF LIONS.

Uprose the conscious king:

He bade no courtier bring

His robe of state-no slaves his steps attend;
Alone he sought-alone

To breathe his secret moan

O'er the death-chamber of his martyr'd friend.

Oh, bitter was the cry

With which the king drew nigh

"Hear me, O prophet, in Jehovah's name! Can His almighty power

Avail in this dark hour,

To quell the lion as it quench'd the flame?

"What means that hollow sound,

Low answering from the ground?-

Is it the sated lions' stifled roar?

Rejoice, O king, rejoice,

It is a human voice;

The voice which thou hadst thought to hear no more.

From Babylon the proud

Night roll'd her sable shroud;—

But o'er the shouts that shook those towers of pride,
When morning tinged the sky,

Was heard one loud, wild cry

It was the death-shriek when the guilty died!

THOMAS DALE.

Hymn of Praise.

SING to the Lord! let harp, and lute, and voice,
Up to the expanding gates of heaven rejoice,

While the bright martyrs to their rest are borne;
Sing to the Lord! their blood-stain'd course is run,
And every head its diadem hath won,

Rich as the purple of the coming morn:

Sing the triumphant champions of their God,

While burn their mounting feet along their skyward road.

Sing to the Lord! for her in beauty's prime
Snatch'd from the wintry earth's ungenial clime,
In the eternal spring of Paradise to bloom;
For her the world display'd its brightest treasure,
And the air panted with the songs of pleasure;
Before earth's throne she chose the lowly tomb,
The vale of tears with willing footsteps trod,
Bearing her cross with Thee, incarnate Son of God!

Sing to the Lord! it is not shed in vain,

The blood of martyrs! from its freshening rain

High springs the church, like some fount-shadowing palm;

The nations crowd beneath its branching shade,

Of its green leaves are kingly diadems made,

And wrapt within its deep embosoming calm

Earth sinks to slumber like the breezeless deep,

And war's tempestuous vultures fold their wings and sleep.

HYMN OF PRAISE.

Sing to the Lord! No more the angels fly
Far in the bosom of the stainless sky

The sound of fierce licentious sacrifice.
From shrined alcove, and stately pedestal,
The marble gods in cumbrous ruin fall,

Headless in dust the awe of nations lies;
Jove's thunder crumbles in his mouldering hand,
And mute as sepulchres the hymnless temples stand.

Sing to the Lord! from damp prophetic cave
No more the loose-hair'd sybils burst and rave,
Nor the pale augurs watch the wandering bird:
No more on hill or in the murky wood,
Mid frantic shout and dissonant music rude,

In human tones are wailing victims heard ;

Nor fathers by the reeking altar-stone

Cowl their dark heads t' escape their children's dying groan.

Sing to the Lord! No more the dead are laid
In cold despair beneath the cypress shade,

To sleep the eternal sleep that knows no morn:
There, eager still to burst death's brazen bands,
The angel of the resurrection stands;

While, on its own immortal pinions borne, Following the breaker of the imprisoning tomb, Forth springs the exulting soul, and shakes away its gloom.

Sing to the Lord! The desert rocks break out,
And the throng'd cities, in one gladdening shout,
The farthest shores by pilgrim step explored;

HYMN OF PRAISE.

Spread all your wings, ye winds, and waft around,
Even to the starry cope's pale waning bound,

Earth's universal homage to the Lord;

Lift up thy head, imperial Capitol,

Proud on thy height to see the banner'd cross unroll.

Sing to the Lord! when time itself shall cease,
And final ruin's desolating peace

Enwrap this wide and restless world of man;
When the Judge rides upon the enthroning wind,

And o'er all generations of mankind

Eternal justice waves its winnowing fan;

To vast infinity's remotest space,

While ages run their everlasting race,

Shall all the beatific hosts prolong,

Wide as the glory of the Lamb, the Lamb's triumphant song.

MILMAN.