NOTHING TO DO.

"Nothingto do" in this world of ours,Where weeds spring up with the fairest flowers,Where smiles have only a fitful play,Where hearts are breaking every day?"Nothing to do?" thou Christian soul,Wrapping thee round in thy selfish stole,Off with the garments of sloth and sin;Christ thy Lord hath a kingdom to win."Nothing to do?" there are prayers to layOn the altar of incense day by day;There are foes to meet within and without;There is error to conquer, strong and stout."Nothing to do?" there are minds to teachThe simplest forms of Christian speech;There are hearts to lure with loving wileFrom the grimmest haunts of sin's defile."Nothing to do?" there are lambs to feed,The precious hope of the Church's need;Strength to be borne to the weak and faint,Vigils to keep with the doubting saint."Nothing to do?" there are heights to attain,Where Christ is transfigured yet again,Where earth will fade in the vision sweet,And the soul press on with wingèd feet."Nothing to do?" and thy Saviour said,"Follow thou me in the path I tread."Lord, lend thy help the journey through,Lest, faint, we cry, "So much to do!"—Unidentified.

"Nothingto do" in this world of ours,Where weeds spring up with the fairest flowers,Where smiles have only a fitful play,Where hearts are breaking every day?

"Nothingto do" in this world of ours,

Where weeds spring up with the fairest flowers,

Where smiles have only a fitful play,

Where hearts are breaking every day?

"Nothing to do?" thou Christian soul,Wrapping thee round in thy selfish stole,Off with the garments of sloth and sin;Christ thy Lord hath a kingdom to win.

"Nothing to do?" thou Christian soul,

Wrapping thee round in thy selfish stole,

Off with the garments of sloth and sin;

Christ thy Lord hath a kingdom to win.

"Nothing to do?" there are prayers to layOn the altar of incense day by day;There are foes to meet within and without;There is error to conquer, strong and stout.

"Nothing to do?" there are prayers to lay

On the altar of incense day by day;

There are foes to meet within and without;

There is error to conquer, strong and stout.

"Nothing to do?" there are minds to teachThe simplest forms of Christian speech;There are hearts to lure with loving wileFrom the grimmest haunts of sin's defile.

"Nothing to do?" there are minds to teach

The simplest forms of Christian speech;

There are hearts to lure with loving wile

From the grimmest haunts of sin's defile.

"Nothing to do?" there are lambs to feed,The precious hope of the Church's need;Strength to be borne to the weak and faint,Vigils to keep with the doubting saint.

"Nothing to do?" there are lambs to feed,

The precious hope of the Church's need;

Strength to be borne to the weak and faint,

Vigils to keep with the doubting saint.

"Nothing to do?" there are heights to attain,Where Christ is transfigured yet again,Where earth will fade in the vision sweet,And the soul press on with wingèd feet.

"Nothing to do?" there are heights to attain,

Where Christ is transfigured yet again,

Where earth will fade in the vision sweet,

And the soul press on with wingèd feet.

"Nothing to do?" and thy Saviour said,"Follow thou me in the path I tread."Lord, lend thy help the journey through,Lest, faint, we cry, "So much to do!"

"Nothing to do?" and thy Saviour said,

"Follow thou me in the path I tread."

Lord, lend thy help the journey through,

Lest, faint, we cry, "So much to do!"

—Unidentified.

Whendeath is drawing near,And thy heart shrinks in fear,And thy limbs fail,Then raise thy hands and prayTo Him who smooths the wayThrough the dark vale.Seest thou the eastern dawn?Hear'st thou, in the red morn,The angels' song?Oh! lift thy drooping headThou, who in gloom and dreadHast lain so long.Death comes to set thee free,Oh! meet him cheerily,As thy true friend;And all thy fears shall cease,And in eternal peace,Thy penance end.—From"Sintram."

Whendeath is drawing near,And thy heart shrinks in fear,And thy limbs fail,Then raise thy hands and prayTo Him who smooths the wayThrough the dark vale.

Whendeath is drawing near,

And thy heart shrinks in fear,

And thy limbs fail,

Then raise thy hands and pray

To Him who smooths the way

Through the dark vale.

Seest thou the eastern dawn?Hear'st thou, in the red morn,The angels' song?Oh! lift thy drooping headThou, who in gloom and dreadHast lain so long.

Seest thou the eastern dawn?

Hear'st thou, in the red morn,

The angels' song?

Oh! lift thy drooping head

Thou, who in gloom and dread

Hast lain so long.

Death comes to set thee free,Oh! meet him cheerily,As thy true friend;And all thy fears shall cease,And in eternal peace,Thy penance end.

Death comes to set thee free,

Oh! meet him cheerily,

As thy true friend;

And all thy fears shall cease,

And in eternal peace,

Thy penance end.

—From"Sintram."

Itis not death to die—To leave this weary road,And, 'mid the brotherhood on high,To be at home with God.It is not death to closeThe eye long dimmed by tears,And wake, in glorious reposeTo spend eternal years.It is not death to bearThe wrench that sets us freeFrom dungeon chain,—to breathe the airOf boundless liberty.It is not death to flingAside this sinful dust,And rise, on strong exulting wing,To live among the just.Jesus, thou Prince of life!Thy chosen cannot die;Like thee, they conquer in the strife,To reign with thee on high.—Bethune.

Itis not death to die—To leave this weary road,And, 'mid the brotherhood on high,To be at home with God.

Itis not death to die—

To leave this weary road,

And, 'mid the brotherhood on high,

To be at home with God.

It is not death to closeThe eye long dimmed by tears,And wake, in glorious reposeTo spend eternal years.

It is not death to close

The eye long dimmed by tears,

And wake, in glorious repose

To spend eternal years.

It is not death to bearThe wrench that sets us freeFrom dungeon chain,—to breathe the airOf boundless liberty.

It is not death to bear

The wrench that sets us free

From dungeon chain,—to breathe the air

Of boundless liberty.

It is not death to flingAside this sinful dust,And rise, on strong exulting wing,To live among the just.

It is not death to fling

Aside this sinful dust,

And rise, on strong exulting wing,

To live among the just.

Jesus, thou Prince of life!Thy chosen cannot die;Like thee, they conquer in the strife,To reign with thee on high.

Jesus, thou Prince of life!

Thy chosen cannot die;

Like thee, they conquer in the strife,

To reign with thee on high.

—Bethune.

NOVEMBER, 1857.

Coldly,sadly descendsThe autumn evening. The fieldStrewn with its dark yellow driftsOf withered leaves, and the elms,Fade into dimness apace,Silent; hardly a shoutFrom a few boys late at their play!The lights come out in the street,In the schoolroom windows; but cold,Solemn, unlighted, austere,Through the gathering darkness, ariseThe chapel-walls, in whose boundThou, my father! art laid.There thou dost lie, in the gloomOf the autumn evening. But ah!That wordgloomto my mindBrings thee back in the lightOf thy radiant vigor again.In the gloom of November we passedDays not dark at thy side;Seasons impaired not the rayOf thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.Such thou wast! and I standIn the autumn evening, and thinkOf bygone autumns with thee.Fifteen years have gone roundSince thou arosest to tread,In the summer-morning, the roadOf death, at a call unforeseen,Sudden. For fifteen years,We who till then in thy shadeRested as under the boughsOf a mighty oak, have enduredSunshine and rain as we might,Bare, unshaded, alone,Lacking the shelter of thee.O strong soul, by what shoreTarriest thou now? For that force,Surely, has not been left vain!Somewhere, surely, afar,In the sounding labor-house vastOf being, is practiced that strength,Zealous, beneficent, firm!Yes, in some far-shining sphere,Conscious or not of the past,Still thou performest the wordOf the Spirit in whom thou dost live,Prompt, unwearied, as here.Still thou upraisest with zealThe humble good from the ground,Sternly repressest the bad;Still, like a trumpet, dost rouseThose who with half-opened eyesTread the border-land dim'Twixt vice and virtue reviv'st,Succorest. This was thy work,This was the life upon earth.What is the course of the lifeOf mortal men on the earth?Most men eddy aboutHere and there, eat and drink,Chatter and love and hate,Gather and squander, are raisedAloft, are hurled in the dust,Striving blindly, achievingNothing; and then they die,—Perish; and no one asksWho or what they have been,More than he asks what waves,In the moonlit solitudes mildOf the midmost ocean, have swelled,Foamed for a moment, and gone.And there are some whom a thirstArdent, unquenchable, fires,Not with the crowd to be spent,Not without aim to go roundIn an eddy of purposeless dust,Effort unmeaning and vain.Ah yes! some of us striveNot without action to dieFruitless, but something to snatchFrom dull oblivion, nor allGlut the devouring grave.We, we have chosen our path,—Path to a clear-purposed goal,Path of advance; but it leadsA long, steep journey, through sunkGorges, o'er mountains in snow.Cheerful, with friends, we set forth;Then, on the height, comes the storm,Thunder crashes from rockTo rock; the cataracts reply;Lightnings dazzle our eyes;Roaring torrents have breachedThe track; the stream-bed descendsIn the place where the wayfarer oncePlanted his footsteps; the sprayBoils o'er its borders; aloft,The unseen snow-beds dislodgeTheir hanging ruin. Alas!Havoc is made in our train!Friends who set forth at our sideFalter, are lost in the storm.We, we only are left!With frowning foreheads, with lipsSternly compressed, we strain on,On; and at nightfall at lastCome to the end of our way,To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;Where the gaunt and taciturn hostStands on the threshold, the windShaking his thin white hairs,Holds his lantern to scanOur storm-beat figures, and asks,—Whom in our party we bring?Whom we have left in the snow?Sadly we answer, We bringOnly ourselves! we lostSight of the rest in the storm.Hardly ourselves we fought through,Stripped, without friends, as we are.Friends, companions, and train,The avalanche swept from our side.But thou wouldst notaloneBe saved, my father!aloneConquer and come to thy goal,Leaving the rest in the wild.We were weary, and weFearful, and we in our marchFain to drop down and to die.Still thou turnedst, and stillBeckonedst the trembler, and stillGavest the weary thy hand.If, in the paths of the world,Stones might have wounded thy feet,Toil or dejection have triedThy spirit, of that we sawNothing: to us thou wast stillCheerful, and helpful, and firm!Therefore to thee it was givenMany to save with thyself;And, at the end of thy day,O faithful shepherd! to come,Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.And through thee I believeIn the noble and great who are gone;Pure souls honored and blestBy former ages, who else—Such, so soulless, so poor,Is the race of men whom I see—Seemed but a dream of the heart,Seemed but a cry of desire.Yes! I believed that there livedOthers like thee in the past,Not like the men of the crowdWho all round me to-dayBluster or cringe, and make lifeHideous and arid and vile;But souls tempered with fire,Fervent, heroic, and good,Helpers and friends of mankind.Servants of God!—or sonsShall I not call you? becauseNot as servants ye knewYour Father's innermost mind,His who unwillingly seesOne of his little ones lost,—Yours is the praise, if mankindHath not as yet in its marchFainted and fallen and died.See! In the rocks of the worldMarches the host of mankind,A feeble, wavering line,Where are they tending? A GodMarshalled them, gave them their goal.Ah, but the way is so long!Years they have been in the wild:Sore thirst plagues them; the rocks,Rising all around, overawe;Factions divide them; their hostThreatens to break, to dissolve.Ah! keep them combined!Else, of the myriads who fillThat army, not one shall arrive;Sole they shall stray; on the rocksBatter forever in vain,Die one by one in the waste.Then, in such hour of needOf your fainting, dispirited race,Ye like angels appear,Radiant with ardor divine.Beacons of hope, ye appear!Languor is not in your heart,Weakness is not in your word,Weariness not on your brow.Ye alight in our van! at your voice,Panic, despair, flee away.Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn,Praise, re-inspire the brave.Order, courage, return;Eyes rekindling, and prayers,Follow your steps as you go.Ye fill up the gaps in our files,Strengthen the wavering line,'Stablish, continue our march,On, to the bound of the waste,On, to the City of God.—Matthew Arnold.

Coldly,sadly descends

The autumn evening. The field

Strewn with its dark yellow drifts

Of withered leaves, and the elms,

Fade into dimness apace,

Silent; hardly a shout

From a few boys late at their play!

The lights come out in the street,

In the schoolroom windows; but cold,

Solemn, unlighted, austere,

Through the gathering darkness, arise

The chapel-walls, in whose bound

Thou, my father! art laid.

There thou dost lie, in the gloom

Of the autumn evening. But ah!

That wordgloomto my mind

Brings thee back in the light

Of thy radiant vigor again.

In the gloom of November we passed

Days not dark at thy side;

Seasons impaired not the ray

Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.

Such thou wast! and I stand

In the autumn evening, and think

Of bygone autumns with thee.

Fifteen years have gone roundSince thou arosest to tread,In the summer-morning, the roadOf death, at a call unforeseen,Sudden. For fifteen years,We who till then in thy shadeRested as under the boughsOf a mighty oak, have enduredSunshine and rain as we might,Bare, unshaded, alone,Lacking the shelter of thee.O strong soul, by what shoreTarriest thou now? For that force,Surely, has not been left vain!Somewhere, surely, afar,In the sounding labor-house vastOf being, is practiced that strength,Zealous, beneficent, firm!

Fifteen years have gone round

Since thou arosest to tread,

In the summer-morning, the road

Of death, at a call unforeseen,

Sudden. For fifteen years,

We who till then in thy shade

Rested as under the boughs

Of a mighty oak, have endured

Sunshine and rain as we might,

Bare, unshaded, alone,

Lacking the shelter of thee.

O strong soul, by what shore

Tarriest thou now? For that force,

Surely, has not been left vain!

Somewhere, surely, afar,

In the sounding labor-house vast

Of being, is practiced that strength,

Zealous, beneficent, firm!

Yes, in some far-shining sphere,Conscious or not of the past,Still thou performest the wordOf the Spirit in whom thou dost live,Prompt, unwearied, as here.Still thou upraisest with zealThe humble good from the ground,Sternly repressest the bad;Still, like a trumpet, dost rouseThose who with half-opened eyesTread the border-land dim'Twixt vice and virtue reviv'st,Succorest. This was thy work,This was the life upon earth.

Yes, in some far-shining sphere,

Conscious or not of the past,

Still thou performest the word

Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live,

Prompt, unwearied, as here.

Still thou upraisest with zeal

The humble good from the ground,

Sternly repressest the bad;

Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse

Those who with half-opened eyes

Tread the border-land dim

'Twixt vice and virtue reviv'st,

Succorest. This was thy work,

This was the life upon earth.

What is the course of the lifeOf mortal men on the earth?Most men eddy aboutHere and there, eat and drink,Chatter and love and hate,Gather and squander, are raisedAloft, are hurled in the dust,Striving blindly, achievingNothing; and then they die,—Perish; and no one asksWho or what they have been,More than he asks what waves,In the moonlit solitudes mildOf the midmost ocean, have swelled,Foamed for a moment, and gone.

What is the course of the life

Of mortal men on the earth?

Most men eddy about

Here and there, eat and drink,

Chatter and love and hate,

Gather and squander, are raised

Aloft, are hurled in the dust,

Striving blindly, achieving

Nothing; and then they die,—

Perish; and no one asks

Who or what they have been,

More than he asks what waves,

In the moonlit solitudes mild

Of the midmost ocean, have swelled,

Foamed for a moment, and gone.

And there are some whom a thirstArdent, unquenchable, fires,Not with the crowd to be spent,Not without aim to go roundIn an eddy of purposeless dust,Effort unmeaning and vain.Ah yes! some of us striveNot without action to dieFruitless, but something to snatchFrom dull oblivion, nor allGlut the devouring grave.

And there are some whom a thirst

Ardent, unquenchable, fires,

Not with the crowd to be spent,

Not without aim to go round

In an eddy of purposeless dust,

Effort unmeaning and vain.

Ah yes! some of us strive

Not without action to die

Fruitless, but something to snatch

From dull oblivion, nor all

Glut the devouring grave.

We, we have chosen our path,—Path to a clear-purposed goal,Path of advance; but it leadsA long, steep journey, through sunkGorges, o'er mountains in snow.Cheerful, with friends, we set forth;Then, on the height, comes the storm,Thunder crashes from rockTo rock; the cataracts reply;Lightnings dazzle our eyes;Roaring torrents have breachedThe track; the stream-bed descendsIn the place where the wayfarer oncePlanted his footsteps; the sprayBoils o'er its borders; aloft,The unseen snow-beds dislodgeTheir hanging ruin. Alas!Havoc is made in our train!Friends who set forth at our sideFalter, are lost in the storm.

We, we have chosen our path,—

Path to a clear-purposed goal,

Path of advance; but it leads

A long, steep journey, through sunk

Gorges, o'er mountains in snow.

Cheerful, with friends, we set forth;

Then, on the height, comes the storm,

Thunder crashes from rock

To rock; the cataracts reply;

Lightnings dazzle our eyes;

Roaring torrents have breached

The track; the stream-bed descends

In the place where the wayfarer once

Planted his footsteps; the spray

Boils o'er its borders; aloft,

The unseen snow-beds dislodge

Their hanging ruin. Alas!

Havoc is made in our train!

Friends who set forth at our side

Falter, are lost in the storm.

We, we only are left!With frowning foreheads, with lipsSternly compressed, we strain on,On; and at nightfall at lastCome to the end of our way,To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;Where the gaunt and taciturn hostStands on the threshold, the windShaking his thin white hairs,Holds his lantern to scanOur storm-beat figures, and asks,—Whom in our party we bring?Whom we have left in the snow?

We, we only are left!

With frowning foreheads, with lips

Sternly compressed, we strain on,

On; and at nightfall at last

Come to the end of our way,

To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;

Where the gaunt and taciturn host

Stands on the threshold, the wind

Shaking his thin white hairs,

Holds his lantern to scan

Our storm-beat figures, and asks,—

Whom in our party we bring?

Whom we have left in the snow?

Sadly we answer, We bringOnly ourselves! we lostSight of the rest in the storm.Hardly ourselves we fought through,Stripped, without friends, as we are.Friends, companions, and train,The avalanche swept from our side.

Sadly we answer, We bring

Only ourselves! we lost

Sight of the rest in the storm.

Hardly ourselves we fought through,

Stripped, without friends, as we are.

Friends, companions, and train,

The avalanche swept from our side.

But thou wouldst notaloneBe saved, my father!aloneConquer and come to thy goal,Leaving the rest in the wild.We were weary, and weFearful, and we in our marchFain to drop down and to die.Still thou turnedst, and stillBeckonedst the trembler, and stillGavest the weary thy hand.If, in the paths of the world,Stones might have wounded thy feet,Toil or dejection have triedThy spirit, of that we sawNothing: to us thou wast stillCheerful, and helpful, and firm!Therefore to thee it was givenMany to save with thyself;And, at the end of thy day,O faithful shepherd! to come,Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.

But thou wouldst notalone

Be saved, my father!alone

Conquer and come to thy goal,

Leaving the rest in the wild.

We were weary, and we

Fearful, and we in our march

Fain to drop down and to die.

Still thou turnedst, and still

Beckonedst the trembler, and still

Gavest the weary thy hand.

If, in the paths of the world,

Stones might have wounded thy feet,

Toil or dejection have tried

Thy spirit, of that we saw

Nothing: to us thou wast still

Cheerful, and helpful, and firm!

Therefore to thee it was given

Many to save with thyself;

And, at the end of thy day,

O faithful shepherd! to come,

Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.

And through thee I believeIn the noble and great who are gone;Pure souls honored and blestBy former ages, who else—Such, so soulless, so poor,Is the race of men whom I see—Seemed but a dream of the heart,Seemed but a cry of desire.Yes! I believed that there livedOthers like thee in the past,Not like the men of the crowdWho all round me to-dayBluster or cringe, and make lifeHideous and arid and vile;But souls tempered with fire,Fervent, heroic, and good,Helpers and friends of mankind.

And through thee I believe

In the noble and great who are gone;

Pure souls honored and blest

By former ages, who else—

Such, so soulless, so poor,

Is the race of men whom I see—

Seemed but a dream of the heart,

Seemed but a cry of desire.

Yes! I believed that there lived

Others like thee in the past,

Not like the men of the crowd

Who all round me to-day

Bluster or cringe, and make life

Hideous and arid and vile;

But souls tempered with fire,

Fervent, heroic, and good,

Helpers and friends of mankind.

Servants of God!—or sonsShall I not call you? becauseNot as servants ye knewYour Father's innermost mind,His who unwillingly seesOne of his little ones lost,—Yours is the praise, if mankindHath not as yet in its marchFainted and fallen and died.

Servants of God!—or sons

Shall I not call you? because

Not as servants ye knew

Your Father's innermost mind,

His who unwillingly sees

One of his little ones lost,—

Yours is the praise, if mankind

Hath not as yet in its march

Fainted and fallen and died.

See! In the rocks of the worldMarches the host of mankind,A feeble, wavering line,Where are they tending? A GodMarshalled them, gave them their goal.Ah, but the way is so long!

See! In the rocks of the world

Marches the host of mankind,

A feeble, wavering line,

Where are they tending? A God

Marshalled them, gave them their goal.

Ah, but the way is so long!

Years they have been in the wild:Sore thirst plagues them; the rocks,Rising all around, overawe;Factions divide them; their hostThreatens to break, to dissolve.Ah! keep them combined!Else, of the myriads who fillThat army, not one shall arrive;Sole they shall stray; on the rocksBatter forever in vain,Die one by one in the waste.

Years they have been in the wild:

Sore thirst plagues them; the rocks,

Rising all around, overawe;

Factions divide them; their host

Threatens to break, to dissolve.

Ah! keep them combined!

Else, of the myriads who fill

That army, not one shall arrive;

Sole they shall stray; on the rocks

Batter forever in vain,

Die one by one in the waste.

Then, in such hour of needOf your fainting, dispirited race,Ye like angels appear,Radiant with ardor divine.Beacons of hope, ye appear!Languor is not in your heart,Weakness is not in your word,Weariness not on your brow.Ye alight in our van! at your voice,Panic, despair, flee away.Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn,Praise, re-inspire the brave.Order, courage, return;Eyes rekindling, and prayers,Follow your steps as you go.Ye fill up the gaps in our files,Strengthen the wavering line,'Stablish, continue our march,On, to the bound of the waste,On, to the City of God.

Then, in such hour of need

Of your fainting, dispirited race,

Ye like angels appear,

Radiant with ardor divine.

Beacons of hope, ye appear!

Languor is not in your heart,

Weakness is not in your word,

Weariness not on your brow.

Ye alight in our van! at your voice,

Panic, despair, flee away.

Ye move through the ranks, recall

The stragglers, refresh the outworn,

Praise, re-inspire the brave.

Order, courage, return;

Eyes rekindling, and prayers,

Follow your steps as you go.

Ye fill up the gaps in our files,

Strengthen the wavering line,

'Stablish, continue our march,

On, to the bound of the waste,

On, to the City of God.

—Matthew Arnold.

Oh,it is hard to work for God,To rise and take his partUpon this battle-field of earth,And not sometimes lose heart!He hides himself so wondrously,As though there were no God;He is least seen when all the powersOf ill are most abroad;Or he deserts us in the hourThe fight is all but lost;And seems to leave us to ourselvesJust when we need him most.Yes, there is less to try our faith,In our mysterious creed,Than in the godless look of earth,In these our hours of need.Ill masters good; good seems to changeTo ill with greatest ease;And, worst of all, the good with goodIs at cross purposes.It is not so, but so it looks;And we lose courage then;And doubts will come if God hath keptHis promises to men.Ah! God is other than we think;His ways are far above,Far beyond reason's height, and reachedOnly by childlike love.The look, the fashion of God's waysLove's life long study are;She can be bold, and guess, and act,When reason would not dare,She has a prudence of her own;Her step is firm and free;Yet there is cautious science, too,In her simplicity.Workmen of God! Oh lose not heart,But learn what God is like;And in the darkest battle fieldThou shalt know where to strike.Thrice blest is he to whom is givenThe instinct that can tellThat God is on the field when HeIs most invisible.Blest too is he who can divineWhere real right doth lie,And dares to take the side that seemsWrong to man's blindfold eye.Then learn to scorn the praise of men,And learn to lose with God;For Jesus won the world through shame,And beckons thee His road.God's glory is a wondrous thing,Most strange in all its ways,And, of all things on earth, least likeWhat men agree to praise.As he can endless glory weaveFrom what men reckon shame,In His own world He is contentTo play a losing game.Muse on His justice, downcast some!Muse and take better heart;Back with thine angel to the field,And bravely do thy part.God's justice is a bed, where weOur anxious hearts may lay,And, weary with ourselves, may sleepOur discontent away.But right is right, since God is God;And right the day must win;To doubt would be disloyalty,To falter would be sin!—F. W. Faber.

Oh,it is hard to work for God,To rise and take his partUpon this battle-field of earth,And not sometimes lose heart!

Oh,it is hard to work for God,

To rise and take his part

Upon this battle-field of earth,

And not sometimes lose heart!

He hides himself so wondrously,As though there were no God;He is least seen when all the powersOf ill are most abroad;

He hides himself so wondrously,

As though there were no God;

He is least seen when all the powers

Of ill are most abroad;

Or he deserts us in the hourThe fight is all but lost;And seems to leave us to ourselvesJust when we need him most.

Or he deserts us in the hour

The fight is all but lost;

And seems to leave us to ourselves

Just when we need him most.

Yes, there is less to try our faith,In our mysterious creed,Than in the godless look of earth,In these our hours of need.

Yes, there is less to try our faith,

In our mysterious creed,

Than in the godless look of earth,

In these our hours of need.

Ill masters good; good seems to changeTo ill with greatest ease;And, worst of all, the good with goodIs at cross purposes.

Ill masters good; good seems to change

To ill with greatest ease;

And, worst of all, the good with good

Is at cross purposes.

It is not so, but so it looks;And we lose courage then;And doubts will come if God hath keptHis promises to men.

It is not so, but so it looks;

And we lose courage then;

And doubts will come if God hath kept

His promises to men.

Ah! God is other than we think;His ways are far above,Far beyond reason's height, and reachedOnly by childlike love.

Ah! God is other than we think;

His ways are far above,

Far beyond reason's height, and reached

Only by childlike love.

The look, the fashion of God's waysLove's life long study are;She can be bold, and guess, and act,When reason would not dare,

The look, the fashion of God's ways

Love's life long study are;

She can be bold, and guess, and act,

When reason would not dare,

She has a prudence of her own;Her step is firm and free;Yet there is cautious science, too,In her simplicity.

She has a prudence of her own;

Her step is firm and free;

Yet there is cautious science, too,

In her simplicity.

Workmen of God! Oh lose not heart,But learn what God is like;And in the darkest battle fieldThou shalt know where to strike.

Workmen of God! Oh lose not heart,

But learn what God is like;

And in the darkest battle field

Thou shalt know where to strike.

Thrice blest is he to whom is givenThe instinct that can tellThat God is on the field when HeIs most invisible.

Thrice blest is he to whom is given

The instinct that can tell

That God is on the field when He

Is most invisible.

Blest too is he who can divineWhere real right doth lie,And dares to take the side that seemsWrong to man's blindfold eye.

Blest too is he who can divine

Where real right doth lie,

And dares to take the side that seems

Wrong to man's blindfold eye.

Then learn to scorn the praise of men,And learn to lose with God;For Jesus won the world through shame,And beckons thee His road.

Then learn to scorn the praise of men,

And learn to lose with God;

For Jesus won the world through shame,

And beckons thee His road.

God's glory is a wondrous thing,Most strange in all its ways,And, of all things on earth, least likeWhat men agree to praise.

God's glory is a wondrous thing,

Most strange in all its ways,

And, of all things on earth, least like

What men agree to praise.

As he can endless glory weaveFrom what men reckon shame,In His own world He is contentTo play a losing game.

As he can endless glory weave

From what men reckon shame,

In His own world He is content

To play a losing game.

Muse on His justice, downcast some!Muse and take better heart;Back with thine angel to the field,And bravely do thy part.

Muse on His justice, downcast some!

Muse and take better heart;

Back with thine angel to the field,

And bravely do thy part.

God's justice is a bed, where weOur anxious hearts may lay,And, weary with ourselves, may sleepOur discontent away.

God's justice is a bed, where we

Our anxious hearts may lay,

And, weary with ourselves, may sleep

Our discontent away.

But right is right, since God is God;And right the day must win;To doubt would be disloyalty,To falter would be sin!

But right is right, since God is God;

And right the day must win;

To doubt would be disloyalty,

To falter would be sin!

—F. W. Faber.

"Jesu, plena caritateManus tuæ perfortæLaxent mea crimina;Latus tuum lanceatum,Caput spinis coronatum,Hæc sint medicamina"—Old Hymn.

"Jesu, plena caritate

Manus tuæ perfortæ

Laxent mea crimina;

Latus tuum lanceatum,

Caput spinis coronatum,

Hæc sint medicamina"—Old Hymn.

I laymy sins on Jesus,The spotless Lamb of God;He bears them all and free usFrom the accursed load.I bring my guilt to Jesus,To wash my crimson stainsWhite in his blood most precious,Till not a stain remains.I lay my wants on Jesus;All fullness dwells in Him.He heals all my diseases,He doth my soul redeem.I lay my griefs on Jesus,My burdens and my cares;He from them all releases,He all my sorrows shares.I rest my soul on Jesus,This weary soul of mine;His right hand me embraces,I on his breast recline.I love the name of Jesus,Immanuel, Christ, the Lord;Like fragrance on the breezes,His name abroad is poured.I long to be like Jesus,Meek, loving, lowly, mild,I long to be like Jesus,The Father's holy child.I long to be with JesusAmid the heavenly throng,To sing with saints his praises,To learn the angel's song.—Horatius Bonar.

I laymy sins on Jesus,

The spotless Lamb of God;

He bears them all and free us

From the accursed load.

I bring my guilt to Jesus,

To wash my crimson stains

White in his blood most precious,

Till not a stain remains.

I lay my wants on Jesus;All fullness dwells in Him.He heals all my diseases,He doth my soul redeem.I lay my griefs on Jesus,My burdens and my cares;He from them all releases,He all my sorrows shares.

I lay my wants on Jesus;

All fullness dwells in Him.

He heals all my diseases,

He doth my soul redeem.

I lay my griefs on Jesus,

My burdens and my cares;

He from them all releases,

He all my sorrows shares.

I rest my soul on Jesus,This weary soul of mine;His right hand me embraces,I on his breast recline.I love the name of Jesus,Immanuel, Christ, the Lord;Like fragrance on the breezes,His name abroad is poured.

I rest my soul on Jesus,

This weary soul of mine;

His right hand me embraces,

I on his breast recline.

I love the name of Jesus,

Immanuel, Christ, the Lord;

Like fragrance on the breezes,

His name abroad is poured.

I long to be like Jesus,Meek, loving, lowly, mild,I long to be like Jesus,The Father's holy child.I long to be with JesusAmid the heavenly throng,To sing with saints his praises,To learn the angel's song.

I long to be like Jesus,

Meek, loving, lowly, mild,

I long to be like Jesus,

The Father's holy child.

I long to be with Jesus

Amid the heavenly throng,

To sing with saints his praises,

To learn the angel's song.

—Horatius Bonar.

Judges. Chapter xi.

Shestood before her father's gorgeous tent,To listen for his coming. Her loose hairWas resting on her shoulders, like a cloudFloating around a statue, and the wind,Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shapePraxiteles might worship. She had clasp'dHer hands upon her bosom, and had raisedHer beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven,Till the long lashes lay upon her brow.Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleftOf a pomegranate blossom; and her neck,Just where the cheek was melting to its curveWith the unearthly beauty sometimes there,Was shaded, as if light had fallen off,Its surface was so polish'd. She was stillingHer light, quick breath, to hear; and the white roseScarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd,Like nothing but a lovely wave of light,To meet the arching of her queenly neck.Her countenance was radiant with love.She look'd like one to die for it—a beingWhose whole existence was the pouring outOf rich and deep affections. I have thoughtA brother's and a sister's love were much;I know a brother's is—for I have beenA sister's idol—and I know how fullThe heart may be of tenderness to her!But the affection of a delicate childFor a fond father, gushing, as it does,With the sweet springs of life, and pouring onThrough all earth's changes, like a river's course—Chasten'd with reverence, and made more pureBy the world's discipline of light and shade—'Tis deeper—holier.The wind bore onThe leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notesRang sharply on the ear at intervals;And the low, mingled din of mighty hostsReturning from the battle, pour'd from far,Like the deep murmur of a restless sea.They came, as earthly conquerors always come,With blood and splendor, revelry and woe.The stately horse treads proudly—he hath trodThe brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheelsOf warriors roll magnificently on—Their weight hath crush'd the fallen.Manis there—Majestic, lordly man—with his sublimeAnd elevated brow, and godlike frame;Lifting his crest in triumph—for his heelHath trod the dying like a wine-press down!The mighty Jephthah led his warriors onThrough Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set,And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praiseWere for the hero's scorn. His step was firm,But free as India's leopard; and his mail,Whoseshekelsnone in Israel might bear,Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame.His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the lookOf his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow,Might quell the lion. He led on, but thoughtsSeem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veinsGrew visible upon his swarthy brow,And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain.He trod less firmly; and his restless eyeGlanced forward frequently, as if some illHe dared not meet, were there. His home was near;And men were thronging, with that strange delightThey have in human passions, to observeThe struggle of his feelings with his pride.He gazed intensely forward. The tall firsBefore his tent were motionless. The leavesOf the sweet aloe, and the clustering vinesWhich half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye,Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one,The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems,And the Circassian rose, and all the crowdOf silent and familiar things, stole up,Like the recover'd passages of dreams.He strode on rapidly. A moment more,And he had reach'd his home; when lo! there sprangOne with a bounding footstep, and a browOf light to meet him. Oh how beautiful!—Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem—And her luxuriant hair!—'twas like the sweepOf a swift wing in visions. He stood still,As if the sight had wither'd him. She threwHer arms about her neck—he heeded not.She call'd him "Father"—but he answer'd not.She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth?There was no anger in that blood-shot eye.Had sickness seized him? She unclasp'd his helm,And laid her white hand gently on his brow,And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords.The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands.And spoke the name of God, in agony.She knew that he was stricken, then, and rush'dAgain into his arms; and, with a floodOf tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayerThat he would breathe his agony in words.He told her—and a momentary flushShot o'er her countenance; and then the soulOf Jephthah's daughter waken'd; and she stoodCalmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well—And she would die.****The sun had well nigh set.The fire was on the altar; and the priestOf the High God was there. A pallid manWas stretching out his trembling hands to heaven,As if he would have pray'd, but had no words—And she who was to die, the calmest oneIn Israel at that hour, stood up alone,And waited for the sun to set. Her faceWas pale, but very beautiful—her lipHad a more delicate outline, and the tintWas deeper; but her countenance was likeThe majesty of angels.The sun set—And she was dead—but not by violence.—N. P. Willis.

Shestood before her father's gorgeous tent,

To listen for his coming. Her loose hair

Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud

Floating around a statue, and the wind,

Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape

Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd

Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised

Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven,

Till the long lashes lay upon her brow.

Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft

Of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck,

Just where the cheek was melting to its curve

With the unearthly beauty sometimes there,

Was shaded, as if light had fallen off,

Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling

Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose

Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd,

Like nothing but a lovely wave of light,

To meet the arching of her queenly neck.

Her countenance was radiant with love.

She look'd like one to die for it—a being

Whose whole existence was the pouring out

Of rich and deep affections. I have thought

A brother's and a sister's love were much;

I know a brother's is—for I have been

A sister's idol—and I know how full

The heart may be of tenderness to her!

But the affection of a delicate child

For a fond father, gushing, as it does,

With the sweet springs of life, and pouring on

Through all earth's changes, like a river's course—

Chasten'd with reverence, and made more pure

By the world's discipline of light and shade—

'Tis deeper—holier.

The wind bore onThe leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notesRang sharply on the ear at intervals;And the low, mingled din of mighty hostsReturning from the battle, pour'd from far,Like the deep murmur of a restless sea.They came, as earthly conquerors always come,With blood and splendor, revelry and woe.The stately horse treads proudly—he hath trodThe brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheelsOf warriors roll magnificently on—Their weight hath crush'd the fallen.Manis there—Majestic, lordly man—with his sublimeAnd elevated brow, and godlike frame;Lifting his crest in triumph—for his heelHath trod the dying like a wine-press down!The mighty Jephthah led his warriors onThrough Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set,And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praiseWere for the hero's scorn. His step was firm,But free as India's leopard; and his mail,Whoseshekelsnone in Israel might bear,Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame.His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the lookOf his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow,Might quell the lion. He led on, but thoughtsSeem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veinsGrew visible upon his swarthy brow,And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain.He trod less firmly; and his restless eyeGlanced forward frequently, as if some illHe dared not meet, were there. His home was near;And men were thronging, with that strange delightThey have in human passions, to observeThe struggle of his feelings with his pride.He gazed intensely forward. The tall firsBefore his tent were motionless. The leavesOf the sweet aloe, and the clustering vinesWhich half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye,Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one,The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems,And the Circassian rose, and all the crowdOf silent and familiar things, stole up,Like the recover'd passages of dreams.He strode on rapidly. A moment more,And he had reach'd his home; when lo! there sprangOne with a bounding footstep, and a browOf light to meet him. Oh how beautiful!—Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem—And her luxuriant hair!—'twas like the sweepOf a swift wing in visions. He stood still,As if the sight had wither'd him. She threwHer arms about her neck—he heeded not.She call'd him "Father"—but he answer'd not.She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth?There was no anger in that blood-shot eye.Had sickness seized him? She unclasp'd his helm,And laid her white hand gently on his brow,And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords.The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands.And spoke the name of God, in agony.She knew that he was stricken, then, and rush'dAgain into his arms; and, with a floodOf tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayerThat he would breathe his agony in words.He told her—and a momentary flushShot o'er her countenance; and then the soulOf Jephthah's daughter waken'd; and she stoodCalmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well—And she would die.****

The wind bore on

The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes

Rang sharply on the ear at intervals;

And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts

Returning from the battle, pour'd from far,

Like the deep murmur of a restless sea.

They came, as earthly conquerors always come,

With blood and splendor, revelry and woe.

The stately horse treads proudly—he hath trod

The brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheels

Of warriors roll magnificently on—

Their weight hath crush'd the fallen.Manis there—

Majestic, lordly man—with his sublime

And elevated brow, and godlike frame;

Lifting his crest in triumph—for his heel

Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down!

The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on

Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set,

And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise

Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm,

But free as India's leopard; and his mail,

Whoseshekelsnone in Israel might bear,

Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame.

His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look

Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow,

Might quell the lion. He led on, but thoughts

Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins

Grew visible upon his swarthy brow,

And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain.

He trod less firmly; and his restless eye

Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill

He dared not meet, were there. His home was near;

And men were thronging, with that strange delight

They have in human passions, to observe

The struggle of his feelings with his pride.

He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs

Before his tent were motionless. The leaves

Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines

Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye,

Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one,

The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems,

And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd

Of silent and familiar things, stole up,

Like the recover'd passages of dreams.

He strode on rapidly. A moment more,

And he had reach'd his home; when lo! there sprang

One with a bounding footstep, and a brow

Of light to meet him. Oh how beautiful!—

Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem—

And her luxuriant hair!—'twas like the sweep

Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still,

As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw

Her arms about her neck—he heeded not.

She call'd him "Father"—but he answer'd not.

She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth?

There was no anger in that blood-shot eye.

Had sickness seized him? She unclasp'd his helm,

And laid her white hand gently on his brow,

And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords.

The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands.

And spoke the name of God, in agony.

She knew that he was stricken, then, and rush'd

Again into his arms; and, with a flood

Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer

That he would breathe his agony in words.

He told her—and a momentary flush

Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul

Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd; and she stood

Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well—

And she would die.****

The sun had well nigh set.The fire was on the altar; and the priestOf the High God was there. A pallid manWas stretching out his trembling hands to heaven,As if he would have pray'd, but had no words—And she who was to die, the calmest oneIn Israel at that hour, stood up alone,And waited for the sun to set. Her faceWas pale, but very beautiful—her lipHad a more delicate outline, and the tintWas deeper; but her countenance was likeThe majesty of angels.The sun set—And she was dead—but not by violence.

The sun had well nigh set.

The fire was on the altar; and the priest

Of the High God was there. A pallid man

Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven,

As if he would have pray'd, but had no words—

And she who was to die, the calmest one

In Israel at that hour, stood up alone,

And waited for the sun to set. Her face

Was pale, but very beautiful—her lip

Had a more delicate outline, and the tint

Was deeper; but her countenance was like

The majesty of angels.

The sun set—

And she was dead—but not by violence.

—N. P. Willis.

Lord,many times I am aweary quiteOf mine own self, my sin, my vanity—Yet be not Thou, or I am lost outright,Weary of me.And hate against myself I often bear,And enter with myself in fierce debate:Take Thou my part against myself, nor shareIn that just hate!Best friends might loathe us, if what things perverseWe know of our own selves, they also knew:Lord, Holy One! if Thou who knowest worseShouldst loathe us too!—Richard Chenevix Trench.

Lord,many times I am aweary quiteOf mine own self, my sin, my vanity—Yet be not Thou, or I am lost outright,Weary of me.

Lord,many times I am aweary quite

Of mine own self, my sin, my vanity—

Yet be not Thou, or I am lost outright,

Weary of me.

And hate against myself I often bear,And enter with myself in fierce debate:Take Thou my part against myself, nor shareIn that just hate!

And hate against myself I often bear,

And enter with myself in fierce debate:

Take Thou my part against myself, nor share

In that just hate!

Best friends might loathe us, if what things perverseWe know of our own selves, they also knew:Lord, Holy One! if Thou who knowest worseShouldst loathe us too!

Best friends might loathe us, if what things perverse

We know of our own selves, they also knew:

Lord, Holy One! if Thou who knowest worse

Shouldst loathe us too!

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

Letthy gold be cast in the furnace,Thy red gold, precious and bright;Do not fear the hungry fire,With its caverns of burning light;And thy gold shall return more precious,Free from every spot and stain;For gold must be tried by fire,As a heart must be tried by pain.In the cruel fire of sorrowCast thy heart, do not faint or wail;Let thy hand be firm and steady,Do not let thy spirit quail:But wait till the trial is over,And take thy heart again;For as gold is tried by fire,So a heart must be tried by pain!I shall know by the gleam and glitterOf the golden chain you wear,By your heart's calm strength in loving,Of the fire they have had to bear.Beat on, true heart, forever;Shine bright strong golden chain;And bless the cleansing fire,And the furnace of living pain!—Adelaide Procter.

Letthy gold be cast in the furnace,

Thy red gold, precious and bright;

Do not fear the hungry fire,

With its caverns of burning light;

And thy gold shall return more precious,

Free from every spot and stain;

For gold must be tried by fire,

As a heart must be tried by pain.

In the cruel fire of sorrowCast thy heart, do not faint or wail;Let thy hand be firm and steady,Do not let thy spirit quail:But wait till the trial is over,And take thy heart again;For as gold is tried by fire,So a heart must be tried by pain!

In the cruel fire of sorrow

Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail;

Let thy hand be firm and steady,

Do not let thy spirit quail:

But wait till the trial is over,

And take thy heart again;

For as gold is tried by fire,

So a heart must be tried by pain!

I shall know by the gleam and glitterOf the golden chain you wear,By your heart's calm strength in loving,Of the fire they have had to bear.Beat on, true heart, forever;Shine bright strong golden chain;And bless the cleansing fire,And the furnace of living pain!

I shall know by the gleam and glitter

Of the golden chain you wear,

By your heart's calm strength in loving,

Of the fire they have had to bear.

Beat on, true heart, forever;

Shine bright strong golden chain;

And bless the cleansing fire,

And the furnace of living pain!

—Adelaide Procter.

Thouart in heaven, and I am still on earth;'Tis years, long years, since we were parted here,I still a wanderer amid grief and fear,And thou the tenant of a brighter sphere.Yet still thou seemest near;But yesterday it seems,Since the last clasp was given,Since our lips met,And our eyes looked into each other's depths.Thou art amid the deathless, I still here,Amid things mortal, in a land of graves,A land o'er which the heavy-beating wavesOf changing time move on, a land where ravesThe storm, which whoso bravesMust have his anchor fixedFirmly within the vail—;So let my anchor be;Such be my consolation and my hope!Thou art amid the sorrowless, I hereAmid the sorrowing: and yet not longShall I remain 'mid sin, and fear, and wrong:Soon shall I join you in your sinless song.Thy day has come, not gone,Thy sun has risen, not set,Thy life is now beyondThe reach of death or change;Not ended, but begun,Such shall our life be soon.And then,—the meeting-day,How full of light and joy!All fear of change cast out,All shadows passed away,The union sealed foreverBetween us and our Lord.—Horatius Bonar.

Thouart in heaven, and I am still on earth;

'Tis years, long years, since we were parted here,

I still a wanderer amid grief and fear,

And thou the tenant of a brighter sphere.

Yet still thou seemest near;

But yesterday it seems,

Since the last clasp was given,

Since our lips met,

And our eyes looked into each other's depths.

Thou art amid the deathless, I still here,Amid things mortal, in a land of graves,A land o'er which the heavy-beating wavesOf changing time move on, a land where ravesThe storm, which whoso bravesMust have his anchor fixedFirmly within the vail—;So let my anchor be;Such be my consolation and my hope!

Thou art amid the deathless, I still here,

Amid things mortal, in a land of graves,

A land o'er which the heavy-beating waves

Of changing time move on, a land where raves

The storm, which whoso braves

Must have his anchor fixed

Firmly within the vail—;

So let my anchor be;

Such be my consolation and my hope!

Thou art amid the sorrowless, I hereAmid the sorrowing: and yet not longShall I remain 'mid sin, and fear, and wrong:Soon shall I join you in your sinless song.Thy day has come, not gone,Thy sun has risen, not set,Thy life is now beyondThe reach of death or change;Not ended, but begun,Such shall our life be soon.

Thou art amid the sorrowless, I here

Amid the sorrowing: and yet not long

Shall I remain 'mid sin, and fear, and wrong:

Soon shall I join you in your sinless song.

Thy day has come, not gone,

Thy sun has risen, not set,

Thy life is now beyond

The reach of death or change;

Not ended, but begun,

Such shall our life be soon.

And then,—the meeting-day,How full of light and joy!All fear of change cast out,All shadows passed away,The union sealed foreverBetween us and our Lord.

And then,—the meeting-day,

How full of light and joy!

All fear of change cast out,

All shadows passed away,

The union sealed forever

Between us and our Lord.

—Horatius Bonar.

Inschools of wisdom all the day was spent:His steps at eve the Rabbi homeward bent,With homeward thoughts, which dwelt upon the wifeAnd two fair children, who consoled his life.She meeting at the threshold led him in,And with these words preventing, did begin:—"Ever rejoicing at your wished return,Yet am I most so now: for since this mornI have been much perplexed and sorely triedUpon one point which you shall now decide.Some years ago, a friend into my careSome jewels gave—rich, precious gems they were;But having given them in my charge, this friendDid afterward nor come for them, nor send,But left them in my keeping for so long,That now it almost seems to me, a wrongThat he should suddenly arrive to-day,To take those jewels, which he left, away.What think you? Shall I freely yield them back,And with no murmuring?—so henceforth to lackThose gems myself, which I had learned to seeAlmost as mine forever, mine in fee.""What question can be here? Your own true heartMust needs advise you of the only part:That may be claimed again which was but lent,And should be yielded with no discontent.Nor surely can we find herein a wrongThat it was left us to enjoy it long.""Good is the word," she answered; "may we nowAnd evermore that it is good allow!"And, rising, to an inner chamber led,And there she showed him, stretched upon one bed,Two children pale: and he the jewels knew,Which God had lent him, and resumed anew.—Richard Chenevix Trench.

Inschools of wisdom all the day was spent:

His steps at eve the Rabbi homeward bent,

With homeward thoughts, which dwelt upon the wife

And two fair children, who consoled his life.

She meeting at the threshold led him in,

And with these words preventing, did begin:—

"Ever rejoicing at your wished return,

Yet am I most so now: for since this morn

I have been much perplexed and sorely tried

Upon one point which you shall now decide.

Some years ago, a friend into my care

Some jewels gave—rich, precious gems they were;

But having given them in my charge, this friend

Did afterward nor come for them, nor send,

But left them in my keeping for so long,

That now it almost seems to me, a wrong

That he should suddenly arrive to-day,

To take those jewels, which he left, away.

What think you? Shall I freely yield them back,

And with no murmuring?—so henceforth to lack

Those gems myself, which I had learned to see

Almost as mine forever, mine in fee."

"What question can be here? Your own true heartMust needs advise you of the only part:That may be claimed again which was but lent,And should be yielded with no discontent.Nor surely can we find herein a wrongThat it was left us to enjoy it long."

"What question can be here? Your own true heart

Must needs advise you of the only part:

That may be claimed again which was but lent,

And should be yielded with no discontent.

Nor surely can we find herein a wrong

That it was left us to enjoy it long."

"Good is the word," she answered; "may we nowAnd evermore that it is good allow!"And, rising, to an inner chamber led,And there she showed him, stretched upon one bed,Two children pale: and he the jewels knew,Which God had lent him, and resumed anew.

"Good is the word," she answered; "may we now

And evermore that it is good allow!"

And, rising, to an inner chamber led,

And there she showed him, stretched upon one bed,

Two children pale: and he the jewels knew,

Which God had lent him, and resumed anew.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

Howbeautiful it is for man to dieUpon the walls of Zion! to be call'd,Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel,To put his armor off, and rest—in heaven!The sun was setting on Jerusalem,The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and lightWas pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque,Like molten silver. Every thing was fair;And beauty hung upon the painted fanes;Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gaveHer wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of menWere in the busy streets, and nothing look'dLike woe, or suffering, save one small trainBearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by,And left no trace upon the busy throng.The sun was just as beautiful; the shoutOf joyous revelry, and the low humOf stirring thousands rose as constantly!Life look'd as winning; and the earth and sky,And every thing seem'd strangely bent to makeA contrast to that comment upon life.How wonderful it is that human prideCan pass that touching moral as it does—Pass it so frequently, in all the forceOf mournful and most simple eloquence—And learn no lesson! They bore on the dead,With the slow step of sorrow, troubled notBy the rude multitude, save, here and there,A look of vague inquiry, or a curseHalf-mutter'd by some haughty Turk whose sleeveHad touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pallAnd Israel too pass'd on—the trampled Jew!Israel!—who made Jerusalem a throneFor the wide world—pass'd on as carelessly;Giving no look of interest to tellThe shrouded dead was any thing to her.Oh that they would be gather'd as a broodIs gather'd by a parent's sheltering wings!—They laid him down with strangers, for his homeWas with the setting sun, and they who stoodAnd look'd so steadfastly upon his grave,Were not his kindred; but they found him there,And loved him for his ministry of Christ.He had died young. But there are silver'd heads,Whose race of duty is less nobly run.His heart was with Jerusalem; and strongAs was a mother's love, and the sweet tiesReligion makes so beautiful at home,He flung them from him in his eager race,And sought the broken people of his God,To preach to them ofJesus. There was one,Who was his friend and helper. One who wentAnd knelt beside him at the sepulchreWhere Jesus slept, to pray for Israel.They had one spirit, and their hearts were knitWith more than human love. God call'd him home.And he of whom I speak stood up alone,And in his broken-heartedness wrought onUntil his Master call'd him.Oh, is it not a noble thing to die.As dies the Christian, with his armor on!—What is the hero's clarion, though its blastRing with the mastery of a world, to this?—What are the searching victories of the mind—The lore of vanish'd ages?—What are allThe trumpetings of proud humanity,To the short history of Him who madeHis sepulchre beside the King of kings?—N. P. Willis.

Howbeautiful it is for man to dieUpon the walls of Zion! to be call'd,Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel,To put his armor off, and rest—in heaven!

Howbeautiful it is for man to die

Upon the walls of Zion! to be call'd,

Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel,

To put his armor off, and rest—in heaven!

The sun was setting on Jerusalem,The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and lightWas pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque,Like molten silver. Every thing was fair;And beauty hung upon the painted fanes;Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gaveHer wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of menWere in the busy streets, and nothing look'dLike woe, or suffering, save one small trainBearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by,And left no trace upon the busy throng.The sun was just as beautiful; the shoutOf joyous revelry, and the low humOf stirring thousands rose as constantly!Life look'd as winning; and the earth and sky,And every thing seem'd strangely bent to makeA contrast to that comment upon life.How wonderful it is that human prideCan pass that touching moral as it does—Pass it so frequently, in all the forceOf mournful and most simple eloquence—And learn no lesson! They bore on the dead,With the slow step of sorrow, troubled notBy the rude multitude, save, here and there,A look of vague inquiry, or a curseHalf-mutter'd by some haughty Turk whose sleeveHad touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pallAnd Israel too pass'd on—the trampled Jew!Israel!—who made Jerusalem a throneFor the wide world—pass'd on as carelessly;Giving no look of interest to tellThe shrouded dead was any thing to her.Oh that they would be gather'd as a broodIs gather'd by a parent's sheltering wings!—

The sun was setting on Jerusalem,

The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and light

Was pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque,

Like molten silver. Every thing was fair;

And beauty hung upon the painted fanes;

Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave

Her wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of men

Were in the busy streets, and nothing look'd

Like woe, or suffering, save one small train

Bearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by,

And left no trace upon the busy throng.

The sun was just as beautiful; the shout

Of joyous revelry, and the low hum

Of stirring thousands rose as constantly!

Life look'd as winning; and the earth and sky,

And every thing seem'd strangely bent to make

A contrast to that comment upon life.

How wonderful it is that human pride

Can pass that touching moral as it does—

Pass it so frequently, in all the force

Of mournful and most simple eloquence—

And learn no lesson! They bore on the dead,

With the slow step of sorrow, troubled not

By the rude multitude, save, here and there,

A look of vague inquiry, or a curse

Half-mutter'd by some haughty Turk whose sleeve

Had touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pall

And Israel too pass'd on—the trampled Jew!

Israel!—who made Jerusalem a throne

For the wide world—pass'd on as carelessly;

Giving no look of interest to tell

The shrouded dead was any thing to her.

Oh that they would be gather'd as a brood

Is gather'd by a parent's sheltering wings!—

They laid him down with strangers, for his homeWas with the setting sun, and they who stoodAnd look'd so steadfastly upon his grave,Were not his kindred; but they found him there,And loved him for his ministry of Christ.He had died young. But there are silver'd heads,Whose race of duty is less nobly run.His heart was with Jerusalem; and strongAs was a mother's love, and the sweet tiesReligion makes so beautiful at home,He flung them from him in his eager race,And sought the broken people of his God,To preach to them ofJesus. There was one,Who was his friend and helper. One who wentAnd knelt beside him at the sepulchreWhere Jesus slept, to pray for Israel.They had one spirit, and their hearts were knitWith more than human love. God call'd him home.And he of whom I speak stood up alone,And in his broken-heartedness wrought onUntil his Master call'd him.

They laid him down with strangers, for his home

Was with the setting sun, and they who stood

And look'd so steadfastly upon his grave,

Were not his kindred; but they found him there,

And loved him for his ministry of Christ.

He had died young. But there are silver'd heads,

Whose race of duty is less nobly run.

His heart was with Jerusalem; and strong

As was a mother's love, and the sweet ties

Religion makes so beautiful at home,

He flung them from him in his eager race,

And sought the broken people of his God,

To preach to them ofJesus. There was one,

Who was his friend and helper. One who went

And knelt beside him at the sepulchre

Where Jesus slept, to pray for Israel.

They had one spirit, and their hearts were knit

With more than human love. God call'd him home.

And he of whom I speak stood up alone,

And in his broken-heartedness wrought on

Until his Master call'd him.

Oh, is it not a noble thing to die.As dies the Christian, with his armor on!—What is the hero's clarion, though its blastRing with the mastery of a world, to this?—What are the searching victories of the mind—The lore of vanish'd ages?—What are allThe trumpetings of proud humanity,To the short history of Him who madeHis sepulchre beside the King of kings?

Oh, is it not a noble thing to die.

As dies the Christian, with his armor on!—

What is the hero's clarion, though its blast

Ring with the mastery of a world, to this?—

What are the searching victories of the mind—

The lore of vanish'd ages?—What are all

The trumpetings of proud humanity,

To the short history of Him who made

His sepulchre beside the King of kings?

—N. P. Willis.

"Know that the Lord hath set apart him that is godly for Himself."—Ps. iv. 3.

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