O I could go through all life's troubles singing,Turning earth's night to day,If self were not so fast around me clinging,To all I do or say.O Lord! that I could waste my life for others,With no ends of my own,That I could pour myself into my brothersAnd live for them alone!Such was the life thou livedst; self-abjuring,Thine own pains never easing,Our burdens bearing, our just doom enduring;A life without self-pleasing.—Frederick William Faber.
O I could go through all life's troubles singing,Turning earth's night to day,If self were not so fast around me clinging,To all I do or say.
O I could go through all life's troubles singing,
Turning earth's night to day,
If self were not so fast around me clinging,
To all I do or say.
O Lord! that I could waste my life for others,With no ends of my own,That I could pour myself into my brothersAnd live for them alone!
O Lord! that I could waste my life for others,
With no ends of my own,
That I could pour myself into my brothers
And live for them alone!
Such was the life thou livedst; self-abjuring,Thine own pains never easing,Our burdens bearing, our just doom enduring;A life without self-pleasing.
Such was the life thou livedst; self-abjuring,
Thine own pains never easing,
Our burdens bearing, our just doom enduring;
A life without self-pleasing.
—Frederick William Faber.
—Frederick William Faber.
———
The time for toil is past, and night has come—The last and saddest of the harvest eves;Worn out with labor, long and wearisome,Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,Each laden with his sheaves.Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain,Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grievesThat I am burdened not so much with grainAs with a heaviness of heart and brain;Master, behold my sheaves.Few, light, and worthless—yet their trifling weightThrough all my frame a weary aching leaves;For long I struggled with my hapless fate,And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late—Yet these are all my sheaves.Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves;Wherefore I blush and weep as at thy feetI kneel down reverently and repeat,"Master, behold my sheaves!"I know these blossoms clustering heavily,With evening dew upon their folded leaves,Can claim no value or utility—Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty beThe glory of my sheaves.So do I gather strength and hope anew;For well I know thy patient love perceivesNot what I did, but what I strove to do,And though the full ripe ears be sadly fewThou wilt accept my sheaves.—Elizabeth Akers.
The time for toil is past, and night has come—The last and saddest of the harvest eves;Worn out with labor, long and wearisome,Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,Each laden with his sheaves.
The time for toil is past, and night has come—
The last and saddest of the harvest eves;
Worn out with labor, long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves.
Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain,Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grievesThat I am burdened not so much with grainAs with a heaviness of heart and brain;Master, behold my sheaves.
Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain,
Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened not so much with grain
As with a heaviness of heart and brain;
Master, behold my sheaves.
Few, light, and worthless—yet their trifling weightThrough all my frame a weary aching leaves;For long I struggled with my hapless fate,And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late—Yet these are all my sheaves.
Few, light, and worthless—yet their trifling weight
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my hapless fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late—
Yet these are all my sheaves.
Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves;Wherefore I blush and weep as at thy feetI kneel down reverently and repeat,"Master, behold my sheaves!"
Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves;
Wherefore I blush and weep as at thy feet
I kneel down reverently and repeat,
"Master, behold my sheaves!"
I know these blossoms clustering heavily,With evening dew upon their folded leaves,Can claim no value or utility—Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty beThe glory of my sheaves.
I know these blossoms clustering heavily,
With evening dew upon their folded leaves,
Can claim no value or utility—
Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be
The glory of my sheaves.
So do I gather strength and hope anew;For well I know thy patient love perceivesNot what I did, but what I strove to do,And though the full ripe ears be sadly fewThou wilt accept my sheaves.
So do I gather strength and hope anew;
For well I know thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do,
And though the full ripe ears be sadly few
Thou wilt accept my sheaves.
—Elizabeth Akers.
—Elizabeth Akers.
———
I pray not thatMen tremble atMy power of place,And lordly sway;I only pray for simple graceTo look my neighbor in the faceFull honestly from day to day.—James Whitcomb Riley.
I pray not thatMen tremble atMy power of place,And lordly sway;I only pray for simple graceTo look my neighbor in the faceFull honestly from day to day.
I pray not that
Men tremble at
My power of place,
And lordly sway;
I only pray for simple grace
To look my neighbor in the face
Full honestly from day to day.
—James Whitcomb Riley.
—James Whitcomb Riley.
———
If thou art blest,Then let the sunshine of thy gladness restOn the dark edges of each cloud that liesBlack in thy brother's skies.If thou art sad,Still be in thy brother's gladness glad.—Hamilton.
If thou art blest,Then let the sunshine of thy gladness restOn the dark edges of each cloud that liesBlack in thy brother's skies.If thou art sad,Still be in thy brother's gladness glad.
If thou art blest,
Then let the sunshine of thy gladness rest
On the dark edges of each cloud that lies
Black in thy brother's skies.
If thou art sad,
Still be in thy brother's gladness glad.
—Hamilton.
—Hamilton.
———
Flower in the crannied wall,I pluck you out of the crannies,I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,Little flower—but if I could understandWhat you are, root and all, and all in all,I should know what God and man is.—Alfred Tennyson.
Flower in the crannied wall,I pluck you out of the crannies,I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,Little flower—but if I could understandWhat you are, root and all, and all in all,I should know what God and man is.
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
—Alfred Tennyson.
—Alfred Tennyson.
———
Praise not thy work, but let thy work praise thee;For deeds, not words, make each man's memory stable.If what thou dost is good, its good all men will see;Musk by its smell is known, not by its label.
Praise not thy work, but let thy work praise thee;For deeds, not words, make each man's memory stable.If what thou dost is good, its good all men will see;Musk by its smell is known, not by its label.
Praise not thy work, but let thy work praise thee;
For deeds, not words, make each man's memory stable.
If what thou dost is good, its good all men will see;
Musk by its smell is known, not by its label.
———
When thou art fain to trace a map of thine own heart,An undiscovered land set down the largest part.—Richard Chenevix Trench.
When thou art fain to trace a map of thine own heart,An undiscovered land set down the largest part.
When thou art fain to trace a map of thine own heart,
An undiscovered land set down the largest part.
—Richard Chenevix Trench.
—Richard Chenevix Trench.
———
Patient, resigned and humble willsImpregnably resist all ills.—Thomas Ken.
Patient, resigned and humble willsImpregnably resist all ills.
Patient, resigned and humble wills
Impregnably resist all ills.
—Thomas Ken.
—Thomas Ken.
———
He is one to whomLong patience hath such mild composure given,That patience now doth seem a thing of whichHe hath no need.—William Wordsworth.
He is one to whomLong patience hath such mild composure given,That patience now doth seem a thing of whichHe hath no need.
He is one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given,
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need.
—William Wordsworth.
—William Wordsworth.
———
Be not too ready to condemnThe wrong thy brothers may have done:Ere ye too harshly censure themFor human faults, ask, "Have I none?"—Eliza Cook.
Be not too ready to condemnThe wrong thy brothers may have done:Ere ye too harshly censure themFor human faults, ask, "Have I none?"
Be not too ready to condemn
The wrong thy brothers may have done:
Ere ye too harshly censure them
For human faults, ask, "Have I none?"
—Eliza Cook.
—Eliza Cook.
———
Search thine own heart. What paineth theeIn others in thyself may be;All dust is frail, all flesh is weak;Be thou the true man thou dost seek.—John Greenleaf Whittier.
Search thine own heart. What paineth theeIn others in thyself may be;All dust is frail, all flesh is weak;Be thou the true man thou dost seek.
Search thine own heart. What paineth thee
In others in thyself may be;
All dust is frail, all flesh is weak;
Be thou the true man thou dost seek.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
———
Through wish, resolve, and act, our willIs moved by undreamed forces still;And no man measures in advanceHis strength with untried circumstance.—John Greenleaf Whittier.
Through wish, resolve, and act, our willIs moved by undreamed forces still;And no man measures in advanceHis strength with untried circumstance.
Through wish, resolve, and act, our will
Is moved by undreamed forces still;
And no man measures in advance
His strength with untried circumstance.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
———
Labor with what zeal we will,Something still remains undone.Something uncompleted stillWaits the rising of the sun.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Labor with what zeal we will,Something still remains undone.Something uncompleted stillWaits the rising of the sun.
Labor with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone.
Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
———
In the deed that no man knoweth,Where no praiseful trumpet bloweth,Where he may not reap who soweth,There, Lord, let my heart serve thee.
In the deed that no man knoweth,Where no praiseful trumpet bloweth,Where he may not reap who soweth,There, Lord, let my heart serve thee.
In the deed that no man knoweth,
Where no praiseful trumpet bloweth,
Where he may not reap who soweth,
There, Lord, let my heart serve thee.
———
O wad some power the giftie gie usTo see oursels as ithers see us!It wad frae mony a blunder free us,An' foolish notion.—Robert Burns.
O wad some power the giftie gie usTo see oursels as ithers see us!It wad frae mony a blunder free us,An' foolish notion.
O wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion.
—Robert Burns.
—Robert Burns.
Father, I know that all my lifeIs portioned out for me,And the changes that are sure to comeI do not fear to see;I ask Thee for a patient mind,Intent on pleasing thee.I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,Through constant watching wise,To meet the glad with joyful smiles,And wipe the weeping eyes,And a heart, at leisure from itself,To soothe and sympathize.I would not have the restless willThat hurries to and fro,Seeking for some great thing to do,Or secret thing to know;I would be treated as a child,Andguidedwhere I go.Wherever in this world I am,In whatsoe'er estate,I have a fellowship with heartsTo keep and cultivate,And a work of lowly love to doFor the Lord on whom I wait.So I ask Thee for the daily strength—To none that ask denied—And a mind to blend with outward life,While keeping at thy side,Content to fill alittlespace,If thou be glorified.And if some things I do not askIn my cup of blessing be,I would have my spirit filled the moreWith grateful love to thee;More careful not to serve thee much,But to please thee perfectly.There are briers besetting every path,Which call for constant care;There is a cross in every lot,And an earnest need for prayer;But a lowly heart, that leans on Thee,Is happy everywhere.In a service which Thy love appointsThere are no bonds for me,For my secret heart has learned the truthWhich makes thy children free,And a life of self-renouncing loveIs a life of liberty.—Anna Letitia Waring.
Father, I know that all my lifeIs portioned out for me,And the changes that are sure to comeI do not fear to see;I ask Thee for a patient mind,Intent on pleasing thee.
Father, I know that all my life
Is portioned out for me,
And the changes that are sure to come
I do not fear to see;
I ask Thee for a patient mind,
Intent on pleasing thee.
I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,Through constant watching wise,To meet the glad with joyful smiles,And wipe the weeping eyes,And a heart, at leisure from itself,To soothe and sympathize.
I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,
Through constant watching wise,
To meet the glad with joyful smiles,
And wipe the weeping eyes,
And a heart, at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathize.
I would not have the restless willThat hurries to and fro,Seeking for some great thing to do,Or secret thing to know;I would be treated as a child,Andguidedwhere I go.
I would not have the restless will
That hurries to and fro,
Seeking for some great thing to do,
Or secret thing to know;
I would be treated as a child,
Andguidedwhere I go.
Wherever in this world I am,In whatsoe'er estate,I have a fellowship with heartsTo keep and cultivate,And a work of lowly love to doFor the Lord on whom I wait.
Wherever in this world I am,
In whatsoe'er estate,
I have a fellowship with hearts
To keep and cultivate,
And a work of lowly love to do
For the Lord on whom I wait.
So I ask Thee for the daily strength—To none that ask denied—And a mind to blend with outward life,While keeping at thy side,Content to fill alittlespace,If thou be glorified.
So I ask Thee for the daily strength—
To none that ask denied—
And a mind to blend with outward life,
While keeping at thy side,
Content to fill alittlespace,
If thou be glorified.
And if some things I do not askIn my cup of blessing be,I would have my spirit filled the moreWith grateful love to thee;More careful not to serve thee much,But to please thee perfectly.
And if some things I do not ask
In my cup of blessing be,
I would have my spirit filled the more
With grateful love to thee;
More careful not to serve thee much,
But to please thee perfectly.
There are briers besetting every path,Which call for constant care;There is a cross in every lot,And an earnest need for prayer;But a lowly heart, that leans on Thee,Is happy everywhere.
There are briers besetting every path,
Which call for constant care;
There is a cross in every lot,
And an earnest need for prayer;
But a lowly heart, that leans on Thee,
Is happy everywhere.
In a service which Thy love appointsThere are no bonds for me,For my secret heart has learned the truthWhich makes thy children free,And a life of self-renouncing loveIs a life of liberty.
In a service which Thy love appoints
There are no bonds for me,
For my secret heart has learned the truth
Which makes thy children free,
And a life of self-renouncing love
Is a life of liberty.
—Anna Letitia Waring.
—Anna Letitia Waring.
———
An old farm house with meadows wide,And sweet with clover on each side;A bright-eyed boy, who looks from outThe door with woodbine wreathed about,And wishes his one thought all day:"O if I could but fly away!From this dull spot the world to see,How happy, happy, happy,How happy I should be!"Amid the city's constant din,A man who round the world has been,Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng,Is thinking, thinking all day long:"O could I only tread once moreThe field-path to the farm-house door,The old green meadow could I see,How happy, happy, happy,How happy I should be!"—Annie Douglas Robinson.
An old farm house with meadows wide,And sweet with clover on each side;A bright-eyed boy, who looks from outThe door with woodbine wreathed about,And wishes his one thought all day:"O if I could but fly away!From this dull spot the world to see,How happy, happy, happy,How happy I should be!"
An old farm house with meadows wide,
And sweet with clover on each side;
A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out
The door with woodbine wreathed about,
And wishes his one thought all day:
"O if I could but fly away!
From this dull spot the world to see,
How happy, happy, happy,
How happy I should be!"
Amid the city's constant din,A man who round the world has been,Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng,Is thinking, thinking all day long:"O could I only tread once moreThe field-path to the farm-house door,The old green meadow could I see,How happy, happy, happy,How happy I should be!"
Amid the city's constant din,
A man who round the world has been,
Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng,
Is thinking, thinking all day long:
"O could I only tread once more
The field-path to the farm-house door,
The old green meadow could I see,
How happy, happy, happy,
How happy I should be!"
—Annie Douglas Robinson.
—Annie Douglas Robinson.
———
Happy the man, of mortals happiest he,Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free;Whom neither hopes deceive nor fears torment,But lives in peace, within himself content;In thought, or act, accountable to noneBut to himself, and unto God alone.—Henry P. F. Lansdowne.
Happy the man, of mortals happiest he,Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free;Whom neither hopes deceive nor fears torment,But lives in peace, within himself content;In thought, or act, accountable to noneBut to himself, and unto God alone.
Happy the man, of mortals happiest he,
Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free;
Whom neither hopes deceive nor fears torment,
But lives in peace, within himself content;
In thought, or act, accountable to none
But to himself, and unto God alone.
—Henry P. F. Lansdowne.
—Henry P. F. Lansdowne.
———
My mind to me a kingdom is;Such perfect joy therein I findAs far exceeds all earthly blissThat God or nature hath assigned:Though much I want that most would have,Yet still my mind forbids to crave.Content I live; this is my stay—I seek no more than may suffice.I press to bear no haughty sway;Look, what I lack my mind supplies.Lo, thus I triumph like a king,Content with what my mind doth bring.I laugh not at another's loss,I grudge not at another's gain;No worldly wave my mind can toss;I brook that as another's bane.I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend.I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.My wealth is health and perfect ease;My conscience clear my chief defense;I never seek by bribes to pleaseNor by desert to give offense.Thus do I live, thus will I die;Would all did so, as well as I.—Edward Dyer. Alt. by William Byrd (1540-1625).
My mind to me a kingdom is;Such perfect joy therein I findAs far exceeds all earthly blissThat God or nature hath assigned:Though much I want that most would have,Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such perfect joy therein I find
As far exceeds all earthly bliss
That God or nature hath assigned:
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
Content I live; this is my stay—I seek no more than may suffice.I press to bear no haughty sway;Look, what I lack my mind supplies.Lo, thus I triumph like a king,Content with what my mind doth bring.
Content I live; this is my stay—
I seek no more than may suffice.
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
Lo, thus I triumph like a king,
Content with what my mind doth bring.
I laugh not at another's loss,I grudge not at another's gain;No worldly wave my mind can toss;I brook that as another's bane.I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend.I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.
I laugh not at another's loss,
I grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly wave my mind can toss;
I brook that as another's bane.
I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend.
I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.
My wealth is health and perfect ease;My conscience clear my chief defense;I never seek by bribes to pleaseNor by desert to give offense.Thus do I live, thus will I die;Would all did so, as well as I.
My wealth is health and perfect ease;
My conscience clear my chief defense;
I never seek by bribes to please
Nor by desert to give offense.
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all did so, as well as I.
—Edward Dyer. Alt. by William Byrd (1540-1625).
—Edward Dyer. Alt. by William Byrd (1540-1625).
———
Just as God leads me I would go;I would not ask to choose my way;Content with what he will bestow,Assured he will not let me stray.So, as he leads, my path I make,And step by step I gladly take—A child, in him confiding.Just as God leads I am content;I rest me calmly in his hands;That which he has decreed and sent—That which his will for me commands—I would that he should all fulfill,That I should do his gracious willIn living or in dying.Just as God leads, I all resign;I trust me to my Father's will;When reason's rays deceptive shine,His counsel would I yet fulfill;That which his love ordained as rightBefore he brought me to the rightMy all to him resigning.Just as God leads me, I abideIn faith, in hope, in suffering true;His strength is ever by my side—Can aught my hold on him undo?I hold me firm in patience, knowingThat God my life is still bestowing—The best in kindness sending.Just as God leads I onward go,Out amid thorns and briers keen;God does not yet his guidance show—But in the end it shall be seen.How, by a loving Father's will,Faithful and true, he leads me still.And so my heart is resting.—From the German.
Just as God leads me I would go;I would not ask to choose my way;Content with what he will bestow,Assured he will not let me stray.So, as he leads, my path I make,And step by step I gladly take—A child, in him confiding.
Just as God leads me I would go;
I would not ask to choose my way;
Content with what he will bestow,
Assured he will not let me stray.
So, as he leads, my path I make,
And step by step I gladly take—
A child, in him confiding.
Just as God leads I am content;I rest me calmly in his hands;That which he has decreed and sent—That which his will for me commands—I would that he should all fulfill,That I should do his gracious willIn living or in dying.
Just as God leads I am content;
I rest me calmly in his hands;
That which he has decreed and sent—
That which his will for me commands—
I would that he should all fulfill,
That I should do his gracious will
In living or in dying.
Just as God leads, I all resign;I trust me to my Father's will;When reason's rays deceptive shine,His counsel would I yet fulfill;That which his love ordained as rightBefore he brought me to the rightMy all to him resigning.
Just as God leads, I all resign;
I trust me to my Father's will;
When reason's rays deceptive shine,
His counsel would I yet fulfill;
That which his love ordained as right
Before he brought me to the right
My all to him resigning.
Just as God leads me, I abideIn faith, in hope, in suffering true;His strength is ever by my side—Can aught my hold on him undo?I hold me firm in patience, knowingThat God my life is still bestowing—The best in kindness sending.
Just as God leads me, I abide
In faith, in hope, in suffering true;
His strength is ever by my side—
Can aught my hold on him undo?
I hold me firm in patience, knowing
That God my life is still bestowing—
The best in kindness sending.
Just as God leads I onward go,Out amid thorns and briers keen;God does not yet his guidance show—But in the end it shall be seen.How, by a loving Father's will,Faithful and true, he leads me still.And so my heart is resting.
Just as God leads I onward go,
Out amid thorns and briers keen;
God does not yet his guidance show—
But in the end it shall be seen.
How, by a loving Father's will,
Faithful and true, he leads me still.
And so my heart is resting.
—From the German.
—From the German.
———
O Thou, by long experience tried,Near whom no grief can long abide;My Lord, how full of sweet contentI pass my years of banishment!All scenes alike engaging proveTo souls impressed with sacred love!Where'er they dwell they dwell in TheeIn heaven, in earth, or on the sea.To me remains nor place nor time,My country is in every clime;I can be calm and free from careOn any shore, since God is there.While place we seek, or place we shun,The soul finds happiness in none;But with a God to guide our way'Tis equal joy to go or stay.Could I be cast where Thou art not,That were indeed a dreadful lot;But regions none remote I call,Secure of finding God in all.—Madame Guyon.
O Thou, by long experience tried,Near whom no grief can long abide;My Lord, how full of sweet contentI pass my years of banishment!
O Thou, by long experience tried,
Near whom no grief can long abide;
My Lord, how full of sweet content
I pass my years of banishment!
All scenes alike engaging proveTo souls impressed with sacred love!Where'er they dwell they dwell in TheeIn heaven, in earth, or on the sea.
All scenes alike engaging prove
To souls impressed with sacred love!
Where'er they dwell they dwell in Thee
In heaven, in earth, or on the sea.
To me remains nor place nor time,My country is in every clime;I can be calm and free from careOn any shore, since God is there.
To me remains nor place nor time,
My country is in every clime;
I can be calm and free from care
On any shore, since God is there.
While place we seek, or place we shun,The soul finds happiness in none;But with a God to guide our way'Tis equal joy to go or stay.
While place we seek, or place we shun,
The soul finds happiness in none;
But with a God to guide our way
'Tis equal joy to go or stay.
Could I be cast where Thou art not,That were indeed a dreadful lot;But regions none remote I call,Secure of finding God in all.
Could I be cast where Thou art not,
That were indeed a dreadful lot;
But regions none remote I call,
Secure of finding God in all.
—Madame Guyon.
—Madame Guyon.
———
My conscience is my crown,Contented thoughts my rest;My heart is happy in itself,My bliss is in my breast.Enough I reckon wealth;A mean, the surest lot;That lies too high for base contempt,Too low for envy's shot.My wishes are but few,All easy to fulfill;I make the limits of my powerThe bounds unto my will.I feel no care of coin;Well doing is my wealth;My mind to me an empire is,While grace affordeth health.I clip high-climbing thoughts,The wings of swelling pride;Their fall is worst that from the heightOf greatest honor slide.Since sails of largest sizeThe storm doth soonest tear,I bear so low and small a sailAs freeth me from fear.I wrestle not with rageWhile fury's flame doth burn;It is in vain to stop the streamUntil the tide doth turn.But when the flame is out,And ebbing wrath doth end,I turn a late enragèd foeInto a quiet friend.And, taught with often proof,A tempered calm I findTo be most solace to itself,Best cure for angry mind.No change of fortune's calmsCan cast my comforts down;When Fortune smiles I smile to thinkHow quickly she will frown.And when in froward moodShe proves an angry foe,Small gain I found to let her come,Less loss to let her go.—Robert Southwell, 1561-95. (One of the Jesuit Fathers who were cruelly executed by Queen Elizabeth.)
My conscience is my crown,Contented thoughts my rest;My heart is happy in itself,My bliss is in my breast.
My conscience is my crown,
Contented thoughts my rest;
My heart is happy in itself,
My bliss is in my breast.
Enough I reckon wealth;A mean, the surest lot;That lies too high for base contempt,Too low for envy's shot.
Enough I reckon wealth;
A mean, the surest lot;
That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.
My wishes are but few,All easy to fulfill;I make the limits of my powerThe bounds unto my will.
My wishes are but few,
All easy to fulfill;
I make the limits of my power
The bounds unto my will.
I feel no care of coin;Well doing is my wealth;My mind to me an empire is,While grace affordeth health.
I feel no care of coin;
Well doing is my wealth;
My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.
I clip high-climbing thoughts,The wings of swelling pride;Their fall is worst that from the heightOf greatest honor slide.
I clip high-climbing thoughts,
The wings of swelling pride;
Their fall is worst that from the height
Of greatest honor slide.
Since sails of largest sizeThe storm doth soonest tear,I bear so low and small a sailAs freeth me from fear.
Since sails of largest size
The storm doth soonest tear,
I bear so low and small a sail
As freeth me from fear.
I wrestle not with rageWhile fury's flame doth burn;It is in vain to stop the streamUntil the tide doth turn.
I wrestle not with rage
While fury's flame doth burn;
It is in vain to stop the stream
Until the tide doth turn.
But when the flame is out,And ebbing wrath doth end,I turn a late enragèd foeInto a quiet friend.
But when the flame is out,
And ebbing wrath doth end,
I turn a late enragèd foe
Into a quiet friend.
And, taught with often proof,A tempered calm I findTo be most solace to itself,Best cure for angry mind.
And, taught with often proof,
A tempered calm I find
To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.
No change of fortune's calmsCan cast my comforts down;When Fortune smiles I smile to thinkHow quickly she will frown.
No change of fortune's calms
Can cast my comforts down;
When Fortune smiles I smile to think
How quickly she will frown.
And when in froward moodShe proves an angry foe,Small gain I found to let her come,Less loss to let her go.
And when in froward mood
She proves an angry foe,
Small gain I found to let her come,
Less loss to let her go.
—Robert Southwell, 1561-95. (One of the Jesuit Fathers who were cruelly executed by Queen Elizabeth.)
—Robert Southwell, 1561-95. (One of the Jesuit Fathers who were cruelly executed by Queen Elizabeth.)
———
Don't lose Courage! Spirit braveCarry with you to the grave.Don't lose Time in vain distress!Work, not worry, brings success.Don't lose Hope! who lets her strayGoes forlornly all the way.Don't lose Patience, come what will!Patience ofttimes outruns skill.Don't lose Gladness! every hourBlooms for you some happy flower.Though be foiled your dearest plan,Don't lose Faith in God and man!
Don't lose Courage! Spirit braveCarry with you to the grave.
Don't lose Courage! Spirit brave
Carry with you to the grave.
Don't lose Time in vain distress!Work, not worry, brings success.
Don't lose Time in vain distress!
Work, not worry, brings success.
Don't lose Hope! who lets her strayGoes forlornly all the way.
Don't lose Hope! who lets her stray
Goes forlornly all the way.
Don't lose Patience, come what will!Patience ofttimes outruns skill.
Don't lose Patience, come what will!
Patience ofttimes outruns skill.
Don't lose Gladness! every hourBlooms for you some happy flower.
Don't lose Gladness! every hour
Blooms for you some happy flower.
Though be foiled your dearest plan,Don't lose Faith in God and man!
Though be foiled your dearest plan,
Don't lose Faith in God and man!
———
Two men toiled side by side from sun to sun,And both were poor;Both sat with children, when the day was done,About their door.One saw the beautiful in crimson cloudAnd shining moon;The other, with his head in sadness bowed,Made night of noon.One loved each tree and flower and singing bird,On mount or plain;No music in the soul of one was stirredBy leaf or rain.One saw the good in every fellow-manAnd hoped the best;The other marvelled at his Master's plan,And doubt confessed.One, having heaven above and heaven below,Was satisfied;The other, discontented, lived in woe,And hopeless died.—Sarah Knowles Bolton.
Two men toiled side by side from sun to sun,And both were poor;Both sat with children, when the day was done,About their door.One saw the beautiful in crimson cloudAnd shining moon;The other, with his head in sadness bowed,Made night of noon.One loved each tree and flower and singing bird,On mount or plain;No music in the soul of one was stirredBy leaf or rain.One saw the good in every fellow-manAnd hoped the best;The other marvelled at his Master's plan,And doubt confessed.One, having heaven above and heaven below,Was satisfied;The other, discontented, lived in woe,And hopeless died.
Two men toiled side by side from sun to sun,
And both were poor;
Both sat with children, when the day was done,
About their door.
One saw the beautiful in crimson cloud
And shining moon;
The other, with his head in sadness bowed,
Made night of noon.
One loved each tree and flower and singing bird,
On mount or plain;
No music in the soul of one was stirred
By leaf or rain.
One saw the good in every fellow-man
And hoped the best;
The other marvelled at his Master's plan,
And doubt confessed.
One, having heaven above and heaven below,
Was satisfied;
The other, discontented, lived in woe,
And hopeless died.
—Sarah Knowles Bolton.
—Sarah Knowles Bolton.
———
Who bides his time, and day by dayFaces defeat full patiently,And lifts a mirthful roundelayHowever poor his fortunes be—He will not fail in any qualmOf poverty; the paltry dime—It will grow golden in his palmWho bides his time.Who bides his time—he tastes the sweetOf honey in the saltest tear;And though he fares with slowest feetJoy runs to meet him drawing near;The birds are heralds of his cause,And like a never-ending rhymeThe roadsides bloom in his applauseWho bides his time.Who bides his time, and fevers notIn a hot race that none achieves,Shall wear cool wreathen laurel, wroughtWith crimson berries in the leaves;And he shall reign a goodly kingAnd sway his hand o'er every clime,With peace writ on his signet ring,Who bides his time.—James Whitcomb Riley.
Who bides his time, and day by dayFaces defeat full patiently,And lifts a mirthful roundelayHowever poor his fortunes be—He will not fail in any qualmOf poverty; the paltry dime—It will grow golden in his palmWho bides his time.
Who bides his time, and day by day
Faces defeat full patiently,
And lifts a mirthful roundelay
However poor his fortunes be—
He will not fail in any qualm
Of poverty; the paltry dime—
It will grow golden in his palm
Who bides his time.
Who bides his time—he tastes the sweetOf honey in the saltest tear;And though he fares with slowest feetJoy runs to meet him drawing near;The birds are heralds of his cause,And like a never-ending rhymeThe roadsides bloom in his applauseWho bides his time.
Who bides his time—he tastes the sweet
Of honey in the saltest tear;
And though he fares with slowest feet
Joy runs to meet him drawing near;
The birds are heralds of his cause,
And like a never-ending rhyme
The roadsides bloom in his applause
Who bides his time.
Who bides his time, and fevers notIn a hot race that none achieves,Shall wear cool wreathen laurel, wroughtWith crimson berries in the leaves;And he shall reign a goodly kingAnd sway his hand o'er every clime,With peace writ on his signet ring,Who bides his time.
Who bides his time, and fevers not
In a hot race that none achieves,
Shall wear cool wreathen laurel, wrought
With crimson berries in the leaves;
And he shall reign a goodly king
And sway his hand o'er every clime,
With peace writ on his signet ring,
Who bides his time.
—James Whitcomb Riley.
—James Whitcomb Riley.
———
I am content; I do not care;Wag as it will the world for me;When Fuss and Fret was all my fareIt got no ground, as I could see.So when away my caring wentI counted cost and was content.With more of thanks and less of thoughtI strive to make my matters meet;To seek, what ancient sages sought,Physic and food in sour and sweet.To take what passes in good part,And keep the hiccups from the heart.With good and gentle-humored heartsI choose to chat, whene'er I come,Whate'er the subject be that starts;But if I get among the glumI hold my tongue, to tell the truth,And keep my breath to cool my broth.For chance or change of peace or pain;For fortune's favor or her frown;For luck or glut, for loss or gain,I never dodge, nor up nor down:But swing what way the ship shall swim,Or tack about with equal trim.I suit not where I shall not speed,Nor trace the turn of every tide;If simple sense will not succeed,I make no bustling, but abide;For shining wealth, or scoring woe,I force no friend, I fear no foe.I love my neighbor as myself;Myself like him too, by his leave;Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelfCame I to crouch, as I conceive;Dame Nature doubtless has designedA man the monarch of his mind.Now taste and try this temper, sirs;Mood it and brood it in your breast;Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,That man does right to mar his rest,Let me be left, and debonair;I am content; I do not care.—John Byrom (1692-1763).
I am content; I do not care;Wag as it will the world for me;When Fuss and Fret was all my fareIt got no ground, as I could see.So when away my caring wentI counted cost and was content.
I am content; I do not care;
Wag as it will the world for me;
When Fuss and Fret was all my fare
It got no ground, as I could see.
So when away my caring went
I counted cost and was content.
With more of thanks and less of thoughtI strive to make my matters meet;To seek, what ancient sages sought,Physic and food in sour and sweet.To take what passes in good part,And keep the hiccups from the heart.
With more of thanks and less of thought
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek, what ancient sages sought,
Physic and food in sour and sweet.
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.
With good and gentle-humored heartsI choose to chat, whene'er I come,Whate'er the subject be that starts;But if I get among the glumI hold my tongue, to tell the truth,And keep my breath to cool my broth.
With good and gentle-humored hearts
I choose to chat, whene'er I come,
Whate'er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum
I hold my tongue, to tell the truth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.
For chance or change of peace or pain;For fortune's favor or her frown;For luck or glut, for loss or gain,I never dodge, nor up nor down:But swing what way the ship shall swim,Or tack about with equal trim.
For chance or change of peace or pain;
For fortune's favor or her frown;
For luck or glut, for loss or gain,
I never dodge, nor up nor down:
But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about with equal trim.
I suit not where I shall not speed,Nor trace the turn of every tide;If simple sense will not succeed,I make no bustling, but abide;For shining wealth, or scoring woe,I force no friend, I fear no foe.
I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of every tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,
I make no bustling, but abide;
For shining wealth, or scoring woe,
I force no friend, I fear no foe.
I love my neighbor as myself;Myself like him too, by his leave;Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelfCame I to crouch, as I conceive;Dame Nature doubtless has designedA man the monarch of his mind.
I love my neighbor as myself;
Myself like him too, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf
Came I to crouch, as I conceive;
Dame Nature doubtless has designed
A man the monarch of his mind.
Now taste and try this temper, sirs;Mood it and brood it in your breast;Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,That man does right to mar his rest,Let me be left, and debonair;I am content; I do not care.
Now taste and try this temper, sirs;
Mood it and brood it in your breast;
Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,
That man does right to mar his rest,
Let me be left, and debonair;
I am content; I do not care.
—John Byrom (1692-1763).
—John Byrom (1692-1763).
———
Some of your hurts you have cured,And the sharpest you still have survived,But what torments of grief you enduredFrom the evils which never arrived.—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Some of your hurts you have cured,And the sharpest you still have survived,But what torments of grief you enduredFrom the evils which never arrived.
Some of your hurts you have cured,
And the sharpest you still have survived,
But what torments of grief you endured
From the evils which never arrived.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
———
Lord, it belongs not to my careWhether I die or live;To love and serve thee is my share,And this thy grace must give.If life be long, I will be gladThat I may long obey;If short, yet why should I be sadTo soar to endless day?Christ leads me through no darker roomsThan he went through before;He that into God's kingdom comesMust enter by his door.Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meetThy blessèd face to see;For, if thy work on earth be sweet,What will thy glory be?Then I shall end my sad complaints,And weary, sinful days,And join with the triumphant saintsWho sing Jehovah's praise.My knowledge of that life is small;The eye of faith is dim;But 'tis enough that Christ knows all,And I shall be with him.—Richard Baxter.
Lord, it belongs not to my careWhether I die or live;To love and serve thee is my share,And this thy grace must give.
Lord, it belongs not to my care
Whether I die or live;
To love and serve thee is my share,
And this thy grace must give.
If life be long, I will be gladThat I may long obey;If short, yet why should I be sadTo soar to endless day?
If life be long, I will be glad
That I may long obey;
If short, yet why should I be sad
To soar to endless day?
Christ leads me through no darker roomsThan he went through before;He that into God's kingdom comesMust enter by his door.
Christ leads me through no darker rooms
Than he went through before;
He that into God's kingdom comes
Must enter by his door.
Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meetThy blessèd face to see;For, if thy work on earth be sweet,What will thy glory be?
Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet
Thy blessèd face to see;
For, if thy work on earth be sweet,
What will thy glory be?
Then I shall end my sad complaints,And weary, sinful days,And join with the triumphant saintsWho sing Jehovah's praise.
Then I shall end my sad complaints,
And weary, sinful days,
And join with the triumphant saints
Who sing Jehovah's praise.
My knowledge of that life is small;The eye of faith is dim;But 'tis enough that Christ knows all,And I shall be with him.
My knowledge of that life is small;
The eye of faith is dim;
But 'tis enough that Christ knows all,
And I shall be with him.
—Richard Baxter.
—Richard Baxter.
———
An easy thing, O Power Divine,To thank thee for these gifts of thine!For summer's sunshine, winter's snow,For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow;But when shall I attain to this:To thank thee for the things I miss?For all young fancy's early gleams,The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams.Hopes unfulfilled, and pleasures knownThrough others' fortunes, not my own,And blessings seen that are not given,And ne'er will be, this side of heaven.Had I, too, shared the joys I see,Would there have been a heaven for me?Could I have felt thy presence nearHad I possessed what I held dear?My deepest fortune, highest bliss,Have grown, perchance, from things I miss.Sometimes there comes an hour of calm;Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm;A Power that works above my willStill leads me onward, upward still;And then my heart attains to this:To thank thee for the things I miss.—Thomas Wentworth Higginson.
An easy thing, O Power Divine,To thank thee for these gifts of thine!For summer's sunshine, winter's snow,For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow;But when shall I attain to this:To thank thee for the things I miss?
An easy thing, O Power Divine,
To thank thee for these gifts of thine!
For summer's sunshine, winter's snow,
For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow;
But when shall I attain to this:
To thank thee for the things I miss?
For all young fancy's early gleams,The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams.Hopes unfulfilled, and pleasures knownThrough others' fortunes, not my own,And blessings seen that are not given,And ne'er will be, this side of heaven.
For all young fancy's early gleams,
The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams.
Hopes unfulfilled, and pleasures known
Through others' fortunes, not my own,
And blessings seen that are not given,
And ne'er will be, this side of heaven.
Had I, too, shared the joys I see,Would there have been a heaven for me?Could I have felt thy presence nearHad I possessed what I held dear?My deepest fortune, highest bliss,Have grown, perchance, from things I miss.
Had I, too, shared the joys I see,
Would there have been a heaven for me?
Could I have felt thy presence near
Had I possessed what I held dear?
My deepest fortune, highest bliss,
Have grown, perchance, from things I miss.
Sometimes there comes an hour of calm;Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm;A Power that works above my willStill leads me onward, upward still;And then my heart attains to this:To thank thee for the things I miss.
Sometimes there comes an hour of calm;
Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm;
A Power that works above my will
Still leads me onward, upward still;
And then my heart attains to this:
To thank thee for the things I miss.
—Thomas Wentworth Higginson.
—Thomas Wentworth Higginson.
———
The rich man's son inherits lands,And piles of brick and stone and gold,And he inherits soft, white hands,And tender flesh that fears the cold,Nor dares to wear a garment old;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.The rich man's son inherits cares;The bank may break, the factory burn,A breath may burst his bubble shares,And soft white hands could hardly earnA living that would serve his turn;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.The rich man's son inherits wants,His stomach craves for dainty fare;With sated heart he hears the pantsOf toiling hinds with brown arms bare,And wearies in his easy-chair;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man's son inherit?Stout muscles and a sinewy heart;A hardy frame, a hardier spirit,King of two hands, he does his partIn every useful toil and art;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man's son inherit?Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,Content that from employment springs,A heart that in his labor sings;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man's son inherit?A patience learned of being poor,Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,A fellow-feeling that is sureTo make the outcast bless his door;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.O rich man's son! there is a toilThat with all others level stands;Large charity doth never soil,But only whiten soft, white hands;This is the best crop from thy lands,A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being rich to hold in fee.O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;There is worse weariness than thineIn merely being rich and great;Toil only gives the soul to shine,And makes rest fragrant and benign;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being poor to hold in fee.Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,Are equal in the earth at last;Both, children of the same dear God,Prove title to your heirship vastBy record of a well-filled past;A heritage, it seems to me,Well worth a life to hold in fee.—James Russell Lowell.
The rich man's son inherits lands,And piles of brick and stone and gold,And he inherits soft, white hands,And tender flesh that fears the cold,Nor dares to wear a garment old;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick and stone and gold,
And he inherits soft, white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits cares;The bank may break, the factory burn,A breath may burst his bubble shares,And soft white hands could hardly earnA living that would serve his turn;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits cares;
The bank may break, the factory burn,
A breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits wants,His stomach craves for dainty fare;With sated heart he hears the pantsOf toiling hinds with brown arms bare,And wearies in his easy-chair;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits wants,
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy-chair;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?Stout muscles and a sinewy heart;A hardy frame, a hardier spirit,King of two hands, he does his partIn every useful toil and art;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart;
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit,
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,Content that from employment springs,A heart that in his labor sings;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?A patience learned of being poor,Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,A fellow-feeling that is sureTo make the outcast bless his door;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
O rich man's son! there is a toilThat with all others level stands;Large charity doth never soil,But only whiten soft, white hands;This is the best crop from thy lands,A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being rich to hold in fee.
O rich man's son! there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,
But only whiten soft, white hands;
This is the best crop from thy lands,
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.
O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;There is worse weariness than thineIn merely being rich and great;Toil only gives the soul to shine,And makes rest fragrant and benign;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being poor to hold in fee.
O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine
In merely being rich and great;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.
Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,Are equal in the earth at last;Both, children of the same dear God,Prove title to your heirship vastBy record of a well-filled past;A heritage, it seems to me,Well worth a life to hold in fee.
Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.
—James Russell Lowell.
—James Russell Lowell.
———
I am content. In trumpet tonesMy song let people know;And many a mighty man with thronesAnd scepter is not so.And if he is I joyful cry,Why, then he's just the same as I.My motto is—Content with this;Gold—place—I prize not such.That which I have my measure is:Wise men desire not much.Men wish and wish, and have their will,And wish again as hungry still.And gold and honor are besidesA very brittle glass;And time, in his unresting tidesMakes all things change and pass:Turns riches to a beggar's dole;Sets glory's race an infant's goal.Be noble—that is more than wealth;Do right—that's more than place;Then in the spirit there is healthAnd gladness in the face:Then thou art with thyself at oneAnd, no man hating, fearest none.—George Macdonald.
I am content. In trumpet tonesMy song let people know;And many a mighty man with thronesAnd scepter is not so.And if he is I joyful cry,Why, then he's just the same as I.
I am content. In trumpet tones
My song let people know;
And many a mighty man with thrones
And scepter is not so.
And if he is I joyful cry,
Why, then he's just the same as I.
My motto is—Content with this;Gold—place—I prize not such.That which I have my measure is:Wise men desire not much.Men wish and wish, and have their will,And wish again as hungry still.
My motto is—Content with this;
Gold—place—I prize not such.
That which I have my measure is:
Wise men desire not much.
Men wish and wish, and have their will,
And wish again as hungry still.
And gold and honor are besidesA very brittle glass;And time, in his unresting tidesMakes all things change and pass:Turns riches to a beggar's dole;Sets glory's race an infant's goal.
And gold and honor are besides
A very brittle glass;
And time, in his unresting tides
Makes all things change and pass:
Turns riches to a beggar's dole;
Sets glory's race an infant's goal.
Be noble—that is more than wealth;Do right—that's more than place;Then in the spirit there is healthAnd gladness in the face:Then thou art with thyself at oneAnd, no man hating, fearest none.
Be noble—that is more than wealth;
Do right—that's more than place;
Then in the spirit there is health
And gladness in the face:
Then thou art with thyself at one
And, no man hating, fearest none.
—George Macdonald.
—George Macdonald.
———
Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage,So do I;She has dappled grays to draw it,None have I.She's no prouder of her coachmanThan am IWith my blue-eyed laughing babyTrundling by.I hide his face, lest she should seeThe cherub boy and envy me.Her fine husband has white fingers,Mine has not;He can give his bride a palace,Mine a cot.Hers comes home beneath the starlight,Ne'er cares she;Mine comes in the purple twilight,Kisses me,And prays that He who turns life's sandsWill hold his loved ones in his hands.Mrs. Lofty has her jewels,So have I;She wears hers upon her bosom,Inside I.She will leave hers at Death's portals,By and by;I shall bear the treasures with meWhen I die—For I have love, and she has gold;She counts her wealth, mine can't be told.She has those who love her station,None have I,But I've one true heart beside me;Glad am I;I'd not change it for a kingdom,No, not I;God will weigh it in a balance,By and by;And then the difference he'll define'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine.
Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage,So do I;She has dappled grays to draw it,None have I.She's no prouder of her coachmanThan am IWith my blue-eyed laughing babyTrundling by.I hide his face, lest she should seeThe cherub boy and envy me.
Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage,
So do I;
She has dappled grays to draw it,
None have I.
She's no prouder of her coachman
Than am I
With my blue-eyed laughing baby
Trundling by.
I hide his face, lest she should see
The cherub boy and envy me.
Her fine husband has white fingers,Mine has not;He can give his bride a palace,Mine a cot.Hers comes home beneath the starlight,Ne'er cares she;Mine comes in the purple twilight,Kisses me,And prays that He who turns life's sandsWill hold his loved ones in his hands.
Her fine husband has white fingers,
Mine has not;
He can give his bride a palace,
Mine a cot.
Hers comes home beneath the starlight,
Ne'er cares she;
Mine comes in the purple twilight,
Kisses me,
And prays that He who turns life's sands
Will hold his loved ones in his hands.
Mrs. Lofty has her jewels,So have I;She wears hers upon her bosom,Inside I.She will leave hers at Death's portals,By and by;I shall bear the treasures with meWhen I die—For I have love, and she has gold;She counts her wealth, mine can't be told.
Mrs. Lofty has her jewels,
So have I;
She wears hers upon her bosom,
Inside I.
She will leave hers at Death's portals,
By and by;
I shall bear the treasures with me
When I die—
For I have love, and she has gold;
She counts her wealth, mine can't be told.
She has those who love her station,None have I,But I've one true heart beside me;Glad am I;I'd not change it for a kingdom,No, not I;God will weigh it in a balance,By and by;And then the difference he'll define'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine.
She has those who love her station,
None have I,
But I've one true heart beside me;
Glad am I;
I'd not change it for a kingdom,
No, not I;
God will weigh it in a balance,
By and by;
And then the difference he'll define
'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine.
———
So long as life's hope-sparkle glows, 'tis good;When death delivers from life's woes, 'tis good.Oh praise the Lord who makes all good, and will;Whether he life or death bestows, 'tis good.
So long as life's hope-sparkle glows, 'tis good;When death delivers from life's woes, 'tis good.Oh praise the Lord who makes all good, and will;Whether he life or death bestows, 'tis good.
So long as life's hope-sparkle glows, 'tis good;
When death delivers from life's woes, 'tis good.
Oh praise the Lord who makes all good, and will;
Whether he life or death bestows, 'tis good.
———
Whichever way the wind doth blow,Some heart is glad to have it so;Then blow it east or blow it west,The wind that blows, that wind is best.My little craft sails not alone;A thousand fleet from every zoneAre out upon a thousand seas;And what for me were favoring breezeMight dash another with the shockOf doom upon some hidden rock.And so I do not dare to prayFor winds to waft me on my way;But leave it to a Higher WillTo stay or speed me, trusting stillThat ill is well, and sure that HeWho launched my bark will sail with meThrough storm and calm, and will not fail,Whatever breezes may prevail,To land me, every peril past,Within his sheltering heaven at last.Then, whatsoever wind doth blow,My heart is glad to have it so;And, blow it east or blow it west,The wind that blows, that wind is best.—Caroline Atherton Mason.
Whichever way the wind doth blow,Some heart is glad to have it so;Then blow it east or blow it west,The wind that blows, that wind is best.
Whichever way the wind doth blow,
Some heart is glad to have it so;
Then blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.
My little craft sails not alone;A thousand fleet from every zoneAre out upon a thousand seas;And what for me were favoring breezeMight dash another with the shockOf doom upon some hidden rock.And so I do not dare to prayFor winds to waft me on my way;But leave it to a Higher WillTo stay or speed me, trusting stillThat ill is well, and sure that HeWho launched my bark will sail with meThrough storm and calm, and will not fail,Whatever breezes may prevail,To land me, every peril past,Within his sheltering heaven at last.
My little craft sails not alone;
A thousand fleet from every zone
Are out upon a thousand seas;
And what for me were favoring breeze
Might dash another with the shock
Of doom upon some hidden rock.
And so I do not dare to pray
For winds to waft me on my way;
But leave it to a Higher Will
To stay or speed me, trusting still
That ill is well, and sure that He
Who launched my bark will sail with me
Through storm and calm, and will not fail,
Whatever breezes may prevail,
To land me, every peril past,
Within his sheltering heaven at last.
Then, whatsoever wind doth blow,My heart is glad to have it so;And, blow it east or blow it west,The wind that blows, that wind is best.
Then, whatsoever wind doth blow,
My heart is glad to have it so;
And, blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.
—Caroline Atherton Mason.
—Caroline Atherton Mason.
———
Some murmur, when their sky is clearAnd wholly bright to view,If one small speck of dark appearIn their great heaven of blue.And some with thankful love are filledIf but one streak of light,One ray of God's good mercy, gildThe darkness of their night.In palaces are hearts that ask,In discontent and pride,Why life is such a dreary taskAnd all things good denied.Yet hearts in poorest huts admireHow love has in their aid(Love that not ever seems to tire)Such rich provision made.—Richard Chenevix Trench.
Some murmur, when their sky is clearAnd wholly bright to view,If one small speck of dark appearIn their great heaven of blue.And some with thankful love are filledIf but one streak of light,One ray of God's good mercy, gildThe darkness of their night.
Some murmur, when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue.
And some with thankful love are filled
If but one streak of light,
One ray of God's good mercy, gild
The darkness of their night.
In palaces are hearts that ask,In discontent and pride,Why life is such a dreary taskAnd all things good denied.Yet hearts in poorest huts admireHow love has in their aid(Love that not ever seems to tire)Such rich provision made.
In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task
And all things good denied.
Yet hearts in poorest huts admire
How love has in their aid
(Love that not ever seems to tire)
Such rich provision made.
—Richard Chenevix Trench.
—Richard Chenevix Trench.
———
Give what Thou canst; without thee we are poor;And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.—William Cowper.
Give what Thou canst; without thee we are poor;And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.
Give what Thou canst; without thee we are poor;
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.
—William Cowper.
—William Cowper.
———
Cleon has a million acres,Ne'er a one have I;Cleon dwelleth in a palace,In a cottage I.Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,Not a penny I;Yet the poorer of the twain isCleon, and not I.Cleon, true, possesseth acres,But the landscape I;Half the charms to me it yieldeth,Money cannot buy.Cleon harbors sloth and dullness,Freshening vigor I;He in velvet, I in fustian,Richer man am I.Cleon is a slave to grandeur,Free as thought am I;Cleon fees a score of doctors,Need of none have I.Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,Cleon fears to die.Death may come, he'll find me ready.Happier man am I.Cleon sees no charm in nature,In a daisy I;Cleon hears no anthem ringingIn the sea and sky;Nature sings to me forever,Earnest listener I!State for state, with all attendants,Who would change? Not I.—Charles Mackay.
Cleon has a million acres,Ne'er a one have I;Cleon dwelleth in a palace,In a cottage I.Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,Not a penny I;Yet the poorer of the twain isCleon, and not I.
Cleon has a million acres,
Ne'er a one have I;
Cleon dwelleth in a palace,
In a cottage I.
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,
Not a penny I;
Yet the poorer of the twain is
Cleon, and not I.
Cleon, true, possesseth acres,But the landscape I;Half the charms to me it yieldeth,Money cannot buy.Cleon harbors sloth and dullness,Freshening vigor I;He in velvet, I in fustian,Richer man am I.
Cleon, true, possesseth acres,
But the landscape I;
Half the charms to me it yieldeth,
Money cannot buy.
Cleon harbors sloth and dullness,
Freshening vigor I;
He in velvet, I in fustian,
Richer man am I.
Cleon is a slave to grandeur,Free as thought am I;Cleon fees a score of doctors,Need of none have I.Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,Cleon fears to die.Death may come, he'll find me ready.Happier man am I.
Cleon is a slave to grandeur,
Free as thought am I;
Cleon fees a score of doctors,
Need of none have I.
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,
Cleon fears to die.
Death may come, he'll find me ready.
Happier man am I.
Cleon sees no charm in nature,In a daisy I;Cleon hears no anthem ringingIn the sea and sky;Nature sings to me forever,Earnest listener I!State for state, with all attendants,Who would change? Not I.
Cleon sees no charm in nature,
In a daisy I;
Cleon hears no anthem ringing
In the sea and sky;
Nature sings to me forever,
Earnest listener I!
State for state, with all attendants,
Who would change? Not I.
—Charles Mackay.
—Charles Mackay.
———
I am so weak, dear Lord, I cannot standOne moment without thee;But oh, the tenderness of thine enfolding,And oh, the faithfulness of thine upholding,And oh, the strength of thy right hand!That strengthis enough for me.I am so needy, Lord, and yet I knowAll fullness dwells in thee;And hour by hour that never-failing treasureSupplies and fills in overflowing measure,My last, my greatest need. And soThy graceis enough for me.It is so sweet to trustthy wordalone!I do not ask to seeThe unveiling of thy purpose, or the shiningOf future light or mysteries untwining;The promise-roll is all my own,Thy wordis enough for me.The human heart asks love. But now I knowThat my heart hath from TheeAll real, and full, and marvelous affectionSo near, so human! yet Divine perfectionThrills gloriously the mighty glow!Thy loveis enough for me.There were strange soul depths, restless, vast and broadUnfathomed as the sea.An infinite craving for some infinite stilling;But now Thy perfect love is perfect filling!Lord Jesus Christ, my Lord, my God,Thou, thou art enough for me!—Frances Ridley Havergal.
I am so weak, dear Lord, I cannot standOne moment without thee;But oh, the tenderness of thine enfolding,And oh, the faithfulness of thine upholding,And oh, the strength of thy right hand!That strengthis enough for me.
I am so weak, dear Lord, I cannot stand
One moment without thee;
But oh, the tenderness of thine enfolding,
And oh, the faithfulness of thine upholding,
And oh, the strength of thy right hand!
That strengthis enough for me.
I am so needy, Lord, and yet I knowAll fullness dwells in thee;And hour by hour that never-failing treasureSupplies and fills in overflowing measure,My last, my greatest need. And soThy graceis enough for me.
I am so needy, Lord, and yet I know
All fullness dwells in thee;
And hour by hour that never-failing treasure
Supplies and fills in overflowing measure,
My last, my greatest need. And so
Thy graceis enough for me.
It is so sweet to trustthy wordalone!I do not ask to seeThe unveiling of thy purpose, or the shiningOf future light or mysteries untwining;The promise-roll is all my own,Thy wordis enough for me.
It is so sweet to trustthy wordalone!
I do not ask to see
The unveiling of thy purpose, or the shining
Of future light or mysteries untwining;
The promise-roll is all my own,
Thy wordis enough for me.
The human heart asks love. But now I knowThat my heart hath from TheeAll real, and full, and marvelous affectionSo near, so human! yet Divine perfectionThrills gloriously the mighty glow!Thy loveis enough for me.
The human heart asks love. But now I know
That my heart hath from Thee
All real, and full, and marvelous affection
So near, so human! yet Divine perfection
Thrills gloriously the mighty glow!
Thy loveis enough for me.
There were strange soul depths, restless, vast and broadUnfathomed as the sea.An infinite craving for some infinite stilling;But now Thy perfect love is perfect filling!Lord Jesus Christ, my Lord, my God,Thou, thou art enough for me!
There were strange soul depths, restless, vast and broad
Unfathomed as the sea.
An infinite craving for some infinite stilling;
But now Thy perfect love is perfect filling!
Lord Jesus Christ, my Lord, my God,
Thou, thou art enough for me!
—Frances Ridley Havergal.
—Frances Ridley Havergal.
———