The Cathedral, or the Catholic and Apostolic Church in England ::

I. Its consolations and guidance as supplied in the daily Service. II. The same continued. III. Its secret meanings. IV. Disclosed to obedience, and in the day of visitation. V. The fall—Abraham. VI. The wilderness—Canaan, as applicable to ourselves. VII. The varied teaching in Job, Proverbs, and Ecclesiastes. VIII. The Prophets under temporal evils disclosing Christ. IX. The kingdom of Heaven upon earth. X. Christ's Presence continued in His Church. XI. Forerunners of the Day of Judgement. XII. A confessional prayer.

Our mirror is a blessed book,
Where out from each illumin'd page
We see one glorious Image look
All eyes to dazzle and engage.
The Christian Year.

I.

“A little further lend thy guiding hand,”
A littly onward, Heav'n-descended Guide!
This scene will soon be o'er, where Hope and Fear
Busily twine the thread of hurrying life;

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And this strange house, where the o'er-arching blue
Bends o'er us, from whose dark aerial caves
The Day and Night, on time's alternate watch,
In solemn interchanges come and go,
And Winter and swift Summer hasten by
So stilly; soon its portal will be past,—
E'en now my shadow on the mountain side
Is lengthening,—hues of Evening o'er me fall.

Thy guiding hand a little further on,
Whate'er Thou art that thro' unravelling time
Leadest me on! for oft Thy hand I feel,
And tho' amid life's solitudes I droop
Unmindful, oft beside me in the gloom,
And oft'ner still behind, 'mid travell'd scenes
As back I bear my view, celestial tracks
I see, and “skirts of an unearthly friend.”

Yet not so much, that, while I wondering tread
Th'unfoldings of Thy silent Providence,
Thou giv'st to feel Thy kind withholding chain,
And gentle leading;—not so much for this,
I thank Thee, heavenly Father, Friend, and Lord,
As that each morn and eve, that hasten on
My days to number, to the homeless heart,
Which turns from fairest scenes unsatisfied,
Wearied with vain pursuits, and vainer end,
Thou in serener dwellings dost disclose

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The Kingdom of Thy treasures, new and old.
—Oft some arm'd saint, who saw th'Invisible,
And in that strength bore heathen gates away,
Or sword-less slew the giant;—oft deep thoughts
Revealing, in Thy Gospel's bosom laid.

Thus may Thy Church within her daily arms
Take me, and with her blessing let me go,—
But not with her depart her accents sweet.
Thus be my loins girded with holier hope,
And discipline, and penitential thought,
Led by the hand of self-rewarding care.
Nor know I aught beside to buoy the soul
Against the weight of her own solitude,
Aim-less and object-less; or, what is worse,
Fever'd pursuit, and rest-less followings on
Of the impassion'd being, meteor lights
Which leave at last in deeper loneliness.

Thence is the soul attun'd to secret spells
Of that eternal music heard in Heav'n,
Albeit hush'd by ruder sounds of Earth,
Yet pure and deep as the celestial spheres,
Which calm the wayward spirit, and reveal
Other pursuits, and ends which end not here;
A light that brighter burns unto the close;
A feeling of immortal youth within,
That while these earthly weeds and flowery hopes

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Drop from us, looks to an enduring home;
A sense of reconcilement oft renew'd,
And power to throw aside the darts of care,
Temptation-proof, ethereal panoply.

II.

Thy guiding hand a little further on!
Thus doth Thy spirit walk with soundless tread
In the outgoings of the morn and eve,
Leading us on, unseen, unheard of man:
Constant—as dews whose footsteps fall from Heav'n,
Noise-less, and not less balmy in their tread;
Gradual—as rays that build the golden grain;
Unseen—as gales that homeward bear the sail;
Dear—as awaken'd thoughts of absent home;
And soothing—as familiar strains from far,
Long-lov'd, but dull to unaccustom'd ear.

And sweet it were to steal from day to day
From the rude thoughts and fever of the world,
To sit upon that mighty river's bank,
Descending from the everlasting hills:
To travel on its banks, and watch the flow
Untouch'd by man, making free melodies,
With multitudinous waters as it goes:—
Such is Thy word, which thro' our annual round
Flows on its course, unfolding more and more,

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And gladdening scenes of life, which hath its spring
Beneath the throne of God, and lingers not,
But to th'eternal ocean passes on.

III.

Mysterious deeps of wisdom, dimly known,
Where fathom of man's thought ne'er touch'd the ground,
Who shall thy lessons reach, who shall descry
His steps of light, who in His boundless word
The wilderness of waters walks unseen?
In this Thy visible house, mankind's abode,
Thy hand withdraws from search of human ken,
Whene'er the depths we trace, there opes beyond
An inner world, where Science lifts her torch,
And wonder leads thro' new enchanted halls.
And glorious links we see of heavenly mould,
But cannot track the chain; Thyself, unseen,
Sittest behind the mighty wheel of things,
Which moves harmonious, tho' unheard below,
Save when Thine order'd ways, at intervals,
Break forth, as falling on some traveller's ear
Musical notes, which make the landscape smile.

The Hand that kindles up the rolling moon,
Lights up the worm's blue lamp beside our path;
And haply in Thy word there hidden lies

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Infinity, coil'd up in narrowest bound;
We on the surface walk, and know it not.

The bird, that sits and sings upon the thorn,
Knows not its Maker's wonders, known to man:
Man moves mid hidden things, to Angels known,
Nor knows of aught, around, above, beneath,
Where'er he turns, beside the path of life,
Enough on earth to know.—O send Thou forth
Thy Light and Truth from Thine unseen abodes,
That they may lead me to Thy Holy Hill.
Thou that hast made the heart and seeing eye,
Give me to know Thyself, of all things else
Let me be ignorant deem'd; for Thee to know
Is to know all that's good and fair below;—
Without Thee we are blind, but in Thee see
Thy multitude of mercy far and wide,
Thee good in all, and all things good in Thee.
Thee only none can seek and seek in vain:
Thus travelling thro' the world's lone desert way,
If, with that Ethiop stranger, o'er Thy word
I bend, Thy heav'n-sent guide is at my side.

IV.

Thy guiding light a little further on!
Shower on my heart Thy radiance, without which

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Thine own sure word were but a barren void,
But ever and anon as Thy calm light
Falls on it, Thy deep fulness comes to view.
Oft clouds and darkness all about Thee dwell,
Till thoughts responsive wake with changeful life,
And open all Thy word, as light or shade
Fall on it, and fresh scenes arise to light,
With life and infinite variety,
Ever unfolding, as in scenes of Earth,
Mountains, and plains, and streams, and land, and sea.
As when upon a wild autumnal noon,
Some traveller sits on airy cliffs, and sees
The far-spread range below, where lights and shades
In beauteous interchanges come and go.
One scene comes forth to view, another fades,
Trees on a distant line—then gleaming rocks,
And woods, dwellings of men, and 'tween the hills
O'er-arching, haply glows the opening sea,
And some lone bark in sunshine—then retires
In shade—the nearer object comes to light
Unseen before—and then on either side
The multifarious landscape breaks to sight,
Unseen, till the bright beam expands the view.
Thus the unbounded fulness of Thy Word
Betokens Thy dread Glory veil'd beneath,
Throwing the light and cloud Thy skirts around.

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Lend me Thy hand, celestial visitant,
Into the inner chambers where thou sitt'st,
Unfolding lessons of diviner lore!
Touch'd by th'unearthly wand, ethereal doors
Fly open, answering to the wondrous key.
I seem behind this shifting scene of things
Admitted, Heav'n's high counsels to behold.
I seem to wander thro' mysterious ways,—
Shadows of other days, and other lights
Around me,—such is Thy unfathom'd word;—
And oft at every turn myself descry.
Patriarchs, and Kings, and Prophets, great and good,
Are hurrying all before us to the tomb,
And cry aloud, “we seek another home.”
I seem to walk through Angel-haunted caves,
Lit by celestial light, not of the Sun,
That leadeth to a kingdom far away.
There as behind this screen, and sensual bar,
I see a hand that weighs us day by day,
We, wrapt in earthly schemes are hastening on,
And heed not; while Thy Judgments walk the earth,
Evils by mortals nam'd, and mercy loves
Beneath a cloud to veil her silver wings,
To me still speaks Thy voice, myself I see,
I see myself in each new scene reveal'd.

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V.

Thy guiding hand a little further on!
Now Death on the new world in twilight dim
Alighting, spreads his wings from pole to pole;
Lo, as the wily Tempter coils away,
I hide me from my sins in coverts green,
And think Thine eye beholds not, but Thy voice,
Mid the dread stillness of the evening's close,—
Thy sternly-kind enquiring voice I hear:
In wither'd and vile leaves I stand reveal'd.
Anon a beckoning hand I see afar,
It is the call that came to Terah's son,
Singling me out from old Euphrates' bank,
And bids me follow to a land unknown.
I linger on, and hear not, but afar
I see the holy Abraham journeying on
Unto that heavenly Canaan, now awhile
He leans on Haran's tomb, now westward wends
Unto the unseen City, built of God.
Strong in celestial hope he walks on high
In Heav'n-conversing solitude; that sight
Girds me with other strength, but loitering still
Myself I see at every turn disclos'd,
Wooing fair phantoms. He is travelling on
He knows not whither, but serene and glad,
Rests with no meaner things, no servant-heir

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Chosen awhile, but lifts his eye aloft
Unto the unseen City, built of God.

VI.

Now like a widening river opes the scene;
A flying host is seen, and marvellous way,
And sea on either hand, with watery walls.
Heav'n hath come down, and with life-giving touch,
Struck all the desert: there where Nature pin'd,
She hath forgot herself, and looks around—
Rocks gushing, Angel's food, the light, and cloud,
The mountain mantled round with fire and smoke,
And terrible voice. 'Tis desolate around,
And far below stretches that livid sea.
Where o'er his black domain the vulture sails
To mountains far away, bright fruitful lands,
Where God would bear them upon eagle's wings,
But Israel turns away, and fears, and pines!

It is the Christian thro' life's wilderness
Numbering his forty years, and mercy's form
Stretching her arms. 'Tis desolate around,
But with new hopes Heav'n opens in the wild,
We knowing know not, but to Egypt turn.

Like that fam'd Trojan in the Tyrian hall
Who mid the pictur'd host himself descried,

127

I start—and see myself in stern review.
And lo, all life seems teeming with new thoughts,
And other purposes ordain'd of old!
I thread a path replete with embryo life,
Unwinding golden destinies, and oft
Find me in a mysterious balance weigh'd.

What are these washings, ceremonial chains,
And all this flow of sacrificial blood?—
The Holiest of Holies open stands,
On that dread sorrowing Sabbath, which gives life
To all the year, the great Atoning Day.—
Christian, thou tread'st on solemn mysteries,
Strange prophecies, and counsels laid in Heav'n;
Dim clues, which thro' Life's winding labyrinth
Lead on, emerging in ethereal day,
If Wisdom lend her kind conducting hand.

To my dark steps a little further on!
Now Israel sits in Canaan's promis'd rest,
The Lord like His own mountains stands around;
But sounds of arms are on the distant gale;
He sits,—but by his side his sword and shield.
Before, an armed Angel leads the way,
But Superstition's haggard brow, behind,
Gleams darkly, by each hill and green tree's shade,
While fitfully breaks forth the wandering moon
On Canaan's fallen towers. Is this the rest?—

128

I start and look around me—

This the land,
Ordain'd of old, the glad Inheritance?
The Peace beneath the Gospel's sheltering vine?
The heavenly kingdom? Mammon reigneth here;
And Passion's sevenfold host of Canaan born!
Amid a falling world we build again
Their idol temples! Thence arise to view
Times heavy with dark signs, and days of old,
And Noah stretching forth beseeching hands,
Fearfully seen the type of darker days;
Judgment is at the door, and even now
With the dread Coming gleams the Eastern gate,
We plant, and build, and hearing, hear it not.

VII.

Thy guiding hand a little further on,
Into the treasures of thine inner shrine!
O perfect energy of Thy deep word,
With varied ends combining all in one,
Like nature's works, all one, all manifold!
Each hath its single lesson, each is part
Of one great whole, that whole in each is found,
Each part with th'other blends, and lends its light.

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One perfect whole, where earth and sea and skies
Are mirror'd; now at random thrown apart,
In thousand scintillations far and wide,
Each fragment bears the earth and sea and skies,
Each on the other throws its pictur'd form,
And all combine in one mysterious whole.

There Wisdom varies oft her mien and form,
Now sits with Job, bow'd down to misery's chain;
Wonderful things from water, earth, and air,
Approach her in the dismal solitude,—
A wilderness all touch'd by fiery breath—
The thunder and the lightning come to him,
The Behemoth is there, and mightiest forms
From the dark lair of Nature's hiding place
Come forth, to speak their Maker mightier far.
There Patience sits, and drooping Penitence,
That long had sought, and vainly sought relief,
Her image eyes in Woe's black flowing stream,
And lifts her head by bitterness reviv'd.

The scene is chang'd, and Wisdom by the gate
Sits calling to the simple ones; and now
Her precepts are link'd beads of many hues,
She bears the golden key to hidden stores,
Rubies, and health, and plenteous barns, and wine,
A crown of glory, or a sheltering shield,
Apples of gold in silver pictures laid,

130

Wherein the Gospel's light in secret burns,
A tree of life, an ever brightening path,
Now length of days, now ways of pleasantness,
Now one that in an ivory palace dwells,
Now terrors in her hand, and hell and death,
Now in the whirlwind walks an armed man.
Thus, like the face of the autumnal night,
She varies: lo, anon her son she brings
On the world's highest stair, experience-crown'd.
O Royal Preacher, wondrous is thy voice,
And deep thy tale of earthly vanity,
Of nothing true but God, nor calm but Heav'n!

VIII.

Thy guiding hand a little further on!
What visionary shapes now fill the gloom,
Of more than earthly wisdom, tho' in grief
O'er earthly things they hang their drooping form?
And who art thou with robes all rudely rent,
Sitting beneath the lofty Lebanon,
Thy realm a waste, and Solitude thy throne?
Daughter of Salem, from what tower of strength
Descending, sitt'st thou at the gate of Death?
And can our God cast off his own elect?
Desolate Judah, lesson sad to us!

131

Desolate Judah, sitting on the ground!
O thou, but little mid the nations known
In arts or arms, (emblem of Hope divine
By man despis'd,) O thou, but little known
In arts or arms, but better known of God,
And could not this content thee, little one?
Euphrates' bank, and Chebar's distant flood,
Have echoed to thy Jordan's deep lament.

Now all is vocal with prophetic strains,
And Lebanon and Carmel find a voice,
Kingdoms their mighty shadows cast before
Going to ruin—Tyre, and Nineveh,
And Babylon. Behind the fleeting scene
Stern Retribution sits, and holds the scale,
Where empires all are weigh'd, while rebel Pride
With meteor lamp leads on to dusky Death.

Meanwhile, as flows the stream of mortal things,
There riseth up the mist of human woes,
And, lo, that mist is skirted with the gleam
Which harbingers the slowly-rising morn,
And brightens more and more, as darker grows
The gather'd cloud, until effulgent made
With rays prophetic purpling all the dawn,
It doth disclose the Sun of Righteousness,
Streaming in light o'er the dim vale of life,
And hills of immortality afar.

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IX.

Thy guiding hand a little further on!
Now other ears we need, and other eyes,
For semblance hath brought forth reality;
The cloud the Sun, the night reveal'd the Day,
Which from her open'd portals walks abroad,
With messages of mercy to the poor.
The volume is unfolded day by day,
Unletter'd hinds are greater than the proud,
And pennyless old age is rich and young,
Sequester'd ignorance is wiser far
Than knowledge, in her city trappings dress'd.
See, where combin'd in our diurnal round,
There moves a twofold orb of light divine,
And throws th'united gleam upon our path,
Morning and Eve, lightening the narrow way.

Thy guiding hand a little further on!
All things are now made new, another Sun
Shines o'er us, and another Moon from high,
Each passing day reveals a sacred step,
Where thro' life's cave our Lord the burden bore;
And when receiv'd into a golden cloud
Thy form is seen no more, Thy sacred voice
In Apostolic warnings cloth'd anew
Is heard, as oft as Evening shadows fall.

133

Thy guiding hand a little further on!
Man hath gone down unto a cheerless tomb,
Dismays and doubts around, and all before
Peopled with visionings of his sad mind,
Doubting of good because deserving ill,
Scarce daring to believe God's mercy true;
When broke the Church amid the shining Heavens,
With all her saints array'd in Jesus' robe,
Rejoicing in the light of other worlds,
Beyond the dull house of mortality.
As when one on a nightly journey wends
With clouded Heavens around him, till from high
Far on her nightly tower is seen the Moon,
With one pale glimmering star,—then hills afar
Come forth in brightness, promontories, seas,
And hanging woods, and gradual breaks to view
The infinite expanse, and all the stars;
He on his homeward way rejoicing goes.

A little onward lend Thy guiding hand!
Thus daily may we gather better thoughts,
And arm our souls with stedfastness, or learn
That we have nought to gather, nought to lose,
On earth, and in that knowledge learn our peace.
Then welcome disappointment, and decay,
Bereavement, and keen sense of lov'd ones lost,—
While not a star along the aerial hall,

134

But solitude, and sterner forms of woe
Lend their companionship amid the gloom—
Full welcome, if they lead us, in Thy path,
To cling the more to Thy parental hand,
Far better than false gleams that lead us thence,
And then desert us.

Soon comes forth to view
Upon her nightly watch the silent Moon,
Ether's blue arms around her, gradual breaks
The infinite expanse, and all the stars;
He on his homeward way rejoicing goes.

Then by degrees is gather'd that within,
Which more and more impels, and urges on
Heavenward—himself unconscious of the Power;
Like gales that swell unseen, and move at length
The unheeding bark, or thoughts the unconscious frame.
Thence he the spirit of obedience wears,
Chains round the neck, and ornaments of grace,
By others seen, but to himself unknown,
Blest ignorance, the nurse of lowly thoughts!

X.

A little onward lend Thy guiding hand!
The Sun now rises on the Minaret,
And desolation lingers o'er the walls,

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Where Angels once, like its own mountain band,
Stood round Jerusalem; thro' that blest realm
Scarce doth a sacred track unharm'd remain,
At Nazareth's lone hill-side, or silent lake,
(Dear lake, dear hills, where Thy blest eyes repos'd!)
But in the living page thy steps abide,
Fresh as of yesterday. Faith lights her lamp,
And rising thence she sees Thee all around:
She walks the earth, in amice of the morn,
And wheresoever the need of human woe
Varies its shape, she finds Thee standing nigh,
And burns to follow. Oft Thy presence lies
Hidden in busy scenes, but as they pass,
The parting step reveals Thy form Divine,
And gentle dealings: as we backward bear
The thoughtful eye, we see in vision clear,
And lost occasions mourn. Oh, that we thence
Might gain th'enduring sense of Thy deep love,
How in that light would things terrestrial wear
Celestial colourings, that we no more
Should droop, or in Thy Presence feel alone!

Thy guiding hand a little further on!
As when, amid her azure palaces,
Mounts in her solemn state the Queen of night,
Her airy pathway holds the floating web,
Shook from her brow the silver clouds among:

136

So doth Thy solemn memory here remain.
Not now beheld at Abraham's friendly door,
In flaming bush, or Gideon's threshing floor,
As man with man, or wrapt with Angel wings;
Not now beside the Galilean shore;
But where the widow'd mother walks bereav'd,
Where Poverty and Blindness by the way,
Where Innocence sits at the festal board,
Or listening Penitence hangs down to mourn.

Lend me thy light a little further on!
Henceforth the Church is as the living shrine,
Wherein the Angel of Thy presence dwells,
About Thee thrown like an illumin'd cloud.
She hand in hand with morning issues forth,
And daily traversing the peopled globe
Kindles mute forms, in which her Spirit dwells,
Circling the earth with her celestial day,
As with a radiant zone, while from her steps
Night flies; she on her path continuous wakes
Her ancient prayers, and David's chaunt of praise,
From Ganges' bank to these cold Western isles.

Nor only thus, but veil'd in silvery mist
With each she springs from the Baptismal fount,
And half disclosing her celestial brow,
She lends herself companion of the way,
Seizing the trembler's hand, and seeing things

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He sees not, forward leads him thro' the night,
And tries him oft in crooked and dark ways,
Of discipline, and penitential love,
Till with her secrets she can trust his soul.

XI.

To my dark steps a little further on,
As things here seen on earth—the Night—the Storm,—
The Thunder—Pain—Unrest—and pale Remorse,
Girding around with ever-during fire,
And boding evil; so within Thy word
Dark auguries in terror seem to walk,
And sterner premonitions blend with hope,
The dread forerunners of the Judgment-morn.
Let not these pass, like clouds which summer gilds,
Lest shapes sublime and shadowy semblances
Teach us th'o'erwhelming substance to forego;
Lest flowers, which spring around the fount of truth,
We gather for frail wreaths of poesy,
Nor know our foulest selves reflected there.
Lest of these mighty things we talk and feel
Unprofited, and fail the will to do;—
The tabernacle deck with curious art,
Forget the engraven word laid up within,
Nor know the mercy seat, and awful cloud.

Thy guiding hand a little further on!

138

The Day and Night on their alternate watch,
And Time's bright sentinels that walk the sky,
The Sun and Moon—'tis written, doubt it not—
Shall pass, and in the darkness make their bed:
And we unloos'd out from this womb of things
Shall on the mighty stair of being climb.

Unto the light a little further on!
Day after day that book is open laid,
A day shall come, and cannot now be far,
A day shall come, when last it shall be seen,—
The universe, of Angels and of men,
Shall stand around, and Christ Himself shall sit
Upon the great tribunal, plac'd on high,
And then that book shall be reopen'd wide,
And we shall look upon the Judge's face,
And on that book—and then shall hear His voice.

XII.

Thy guiding hand a little further on!
O Thou sole End and Author of all hope,
That hast reveal'd the sinner's dwelling-place,
And the eternity of Heaven and Hell,
Look on us, teach us upon Thee to lean;
O'er the dread gulf disclose Thy peaceful path!
For thou art not in brain-sick ecstasy,
That climbs the Heavens to light th'unhallow'd torch,

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Fever'd Imagination's fiery wing,
Like vap'rous breath, which in the furnace mounts,
Fann'd to a vitreous blaze, and hangs again
In earth-born vapor on the vault above;
But in that viewless flame, from ashes born
Of Penitence, with lowlier wisdom wise,
Born to a purer love, and onward bent
To purge terrestrial dross, that trembling still
In thankfulness, in lowliness and love,
With Anna and with Simeon, good of old,
Waits in Thy courts: while still, from step to step,
On stairs by Israel seen, dwindle behind
The towers of earth, and gradual grow before
The immensities of Heav'n. Oh, lend me wings,
Ethereal Spirit, ere that stair of Heav'n
Be gather'd up into th'enfolding clouds,
And I be left in darkness,—low I sit
In sorrow, penitence-strick'n, and deep woe,—
Mid shades of Death, thine arrow drinks my blood.
For I Thine innocent side have pierced deep,
For I have pierced deep Thine innocent side,
Thou Holy One,—and I could sit and weep,
But that Thou bidd'st me rise, and with Thy voice
Of ever-varying seasons, day and night,
And this eternity that stirs within,
Thou bidd'st us stand not, but arise, and wash

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Our robes to meet Thee, and to trim the lamp.
Bow'd with th'o'erwhelming burden down to earth,
I dar'd not look upon Thy bleeding brow;
Like some poor Alpine wanderer, who in dreams,
In powerless dreams, beholds th'incumbent pile,
Heavily over-hanging—threat'ning still,
Still threat'ning to hurl down the gather'd Alp;
But now I trembling look to Thee, and, oh,
If not to me the harp of Jesse's son,
Which bad the gloomy spirit part from Saul,
In blooming-haired youth, oh, for that harp,
With which in later day, with sackcloth rob'd
And Penitence, his overcharged heart
Broke forth, and gave its sorrows to the strings,
Of deep-ingrained guilt—of guilt that cleaves
Unto the bone of life. Thee shall I sing,
While passion round the heart with snaky wile
Wreaths its dark folds, and pride, that foully feeds
On praise of man, breeding distemper'd blood,
And dons the pilgrim's cowl, and lowly weed!
Wash me again for Thine, and bind my wounds,
For whom have I in Heav'n but Thee alone?
And whom on earth—but Thee? and well I know
If I dare lean on aught but Thee alone,
I mourn a broken reed and bleeding side.

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Oh, lead me but a little further on!
Oh, now, I now behold Thee, who Thou art,
Celestial Visitant! I see Thee now
Confess'd, and my revealed God adore!
Stay with me, for the evening goes away;
I am not worthy Thou beneath my roof
Should'st enter, if Thou enterest not, I die;
The day is now far spent, and evening shades
Are coming on—oh, with me stay awhile.

University of Virginia Library

HOLY SCRIPTURE.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.