CHURCH EFFIGIES.

THE thought of those of old was worth
The sculptor's best endeavour,
When they had hidden in the earth
Some much-loved form for ever,
Before the dim remembrance waned,
To fix and keep it surely,-
The poor frail body, travel-stained,
Wrought in strong marble purely ;-

To place with prayerful, reverent heart,
Where no rude sound would waken,
The image of the earthly part

Of that which God had taken, Within His courts, where mercies flow, The house of soul-refection,

That that above and that below
Might share His sure protection.

And thus, though long the form beneath
To shapeless dust has crumbled,
The knight whose sword is in its sheath
Still meets us (greatly humbled);

So fair, on mere resemblance rests
The mind as on the real,

And carven counterpart invests
With history ideal.

That priest, the scroll about his head
Of antique-lettered Latin,
Seemeth the very man who said

The mass on many a matin,
In robes the same whose stony folds
The stony limbs now cover;

We think he loved the book he holds,
And lived as its true lover.

Then 'Dona nobis pacem' rang
Around the lighted altar;
And Dona nobis pacem' sang

His heart, though lips would falter;

And, when a little while was past,
The peace was not denied him;
Free to let fall the cross at last,

He dropped it, there beside him.

How sweet to lie thus still and calm,
With pale hands softly folden,
And pointing upwards, palm to palm,
As if by angels holden!

Those wrists so white and pulseless were,
That never they should tire
From attitude of endless prayer

And heavenward-raised desire;

And eyes whose sealèd lids would seem
To speak and say, 'For ever
We rest from seeing the sad dream
Of earth's confused endeavour;
For all disturbing things are past;
Yea, even thought unspoken
Is merged in passive peace at last,
Heart-commune most unbroken.'

Without is din of toil and play,
And grief of high and lowly,
On which there falls from day to day
The bells' soft chiming holy;
And many a foot the threshold nears,
With woe or joy unsteady,

But always silent worshippers
Are found within already.

The people pass them in the aisle,
And see their marble faces,
They lie most quiet all the while,
And stir not in their places;
But beating hearts of those that see
Forget their long commotion,
Feeling the full intensity

Of that sustained devotion.

The prayerful murmur swells and falls,
And then the organ pealing
Makes music wander round the walls,
And feel the carven ceiling
For heavenward passage-even as,
When God-thoughts overbrim it,

The soul arising strives to pass
Beyond the earthly limit.

But when that noise of praying breath
Goes up from hearts abounding,
Like to the sound that underneath

High cliffs is often sounding;
A many murmurs, making one,

Of restless waves, that borrow.
Each from the rest, a lasting tone
Of most impressive sorrow;

And when that music upward rolled
Is hung with voices starting,

As though an outstretched hand should hold
An angel's skirts departing ;-
Each heart its griefs and glories shares
With all its yearning brothers ;-
They only pray their quiet prayers,
And join not with the others.

Then by their place the people press,
Pass out, and leave them lonely;
They wait in constant restfulness,
Varied a little only

When sometimes, from the golden south,
A sunbeam touches lightly

Either a forehead or a mouth,

With rays that linger brightly:

Then do those moveless features seem
To move with gentle laughter,

As one who dreameth in a dream
The joys of the Hereafter;
Or, when the fading twilight beam
Dimmeth that glory pleasant,

As one awaking from such dream
Into the mournful Present.

And all day long they only change
With such external graces;

Then lights the mystic moonlight strange
Their ever-heavenward faces;

And, slanting down the archèd aisle

From some clerestory casement,
Perfects the gloom that hid the smile
Into a meek amazement.

And, whether darkness grows or faints,
Their rest hath holy keepers;
Undying seraphs and dead saints

Look down upon the sleepers,

From niche and corner overhead,
With strong yet tender features,
As we, we think, who are not dead,
Are watched by fairer creatures.

The clothing of unearthly peace
With earthly garb may symbol
They from earth's duties did not cease
So long as heart could tremble :—
But still at evening wrought and fought,
Watching the more intently,

While that grand calm which passeth thought
Gathered about them gently:

For it they wrestled on in prayer
Till prayer no more was, needed.-
It hushed them wholly unaware,
Thus, even as they pleaded,-
Minding us ever silently

To wear Life's garments meetly,
And live by patient faith, if we
Would slumber after sweetly.

W. ST. HILL BOURNE.

'SO UNGRATEFUL.'

MISS PIPER, if you please, sir,' said the Rectory parlourmaid one Monday morning when Mr. Sumner had stayed in to see any of his parish-helpers who might wish for advice about their work.

Miss Piper was a small, prim, middle-aged lady, who had lived at Brayford with her father until a year ago, when, at his death, she came to Carchester, where she had a widowed sister, the two having agreed to eke out their small income by keeping a fancy shop. Old Mr. Piper had had a pension, which had enabled him and his daughter to live in what the latter called 'a genteel way,' and it was now a great trouble to her to be obliged to soil her hands with trade; and the elaborate ignorance she thought necessary to display in all matters relating to business, and the very amateur fashion in which she attended to the wants of her customers, made it appear unlikely that trade would ever do more for her than soil her fingers.

She used to teach in the Sunday School at Brayford, and when she left, the clergyman there wrote to Mr. Sumner about her, and said he believed she would be glad to do any work for which she might have time. So it came to pass that she was now a teacher in the St. John's Sunday Schools, and had gradually become acquainted with the parents of her pupils. Some months ago she and her sister had taken into their service a young girl whom they had got to know in this way, and in whom both had been interested. She had a very bad home, and they talked a great deal about teaching and training her, so that Mr. Sumner was quite glad to think that now poor, troublesome Sarah Davies would have a chance of being well looked after.

He soon noticed, however, that she was to be met in the streets at all hours, dawdling along, looking in at shop windows, or gossiping at corners. She was always either very smart or very untidy, and to an experienced eye her looks and manners told a sad tale of carelessness, sloth, and immodesty.

He also found that Sarah's mistresses had changed their tune with regard to the delightfulness of Carchester generally, and the arrangements of St. John's parish in particular. The church was too dark, the seats uncomfortable, the ventilation bad, the free and open system disagreeable. The school was too far off, the children were no longer dears,' and their parents ceased to be 'so nice, poor things!'

Mr. Sumner was, therefore, tolerably well prepared for the style of