Lippincott Tor Jnne. Whatau image of pcace and rest Is thla hule churcli amonu its gravas, ' Allls aoqakt; the troubleu breast, 'l iit wouiuled spirit, the beurt oppfessed, Here may find the repose it craves. Ser how the ivy cliinbs and expands Over this huinble hermitage, And sec nis to cares wïth its littlr hand The rough, gray stones, as a chtld tlint M.mds Ctressing the wrinkkd check of ipe. Ybu cross the trireshold, and dim nnd smnl! Is the space thut serves for the shepheril's luid The iKirrow aisle, the bare white w;ül, pews and the pulpit quaiat and Uil, Whisper and say, "AI;is, wc ure old.'1 Herbert's chapel at Bemerton am m í H:irdly more p.icious is than this, lïut pott and pastor, blem in one, C follied with i splendor, :is oi' the Min, Tliat low !y ana holy editice. It is not the Wall of stonc without That makes the building smalt ox greut, lïut the souls Ilght shinint; round about, And the faith that overcometh doubt, And the love Üiat stroner is than h.it-. W'i re I i pilrim in search of pcace, í 1 p.istorof holy church, More than a bishop's diocese Shnuld I prize this place of rest and release From i'urther longing and further search. Ilere would I stay, and let the world With its distant thundcr roar and roll; Stonns do not rend üiu uil ihat is furlc.d. Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled In au eddy of wind, is the ancliorcd soul.