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O backward-looking thought! O pain! O tears!

For us there is not any silver sound Of rhythmic wonders springing from the ground.

Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish lore Which makes men mummies; weighs out every grain Of that which was miraculous before, And sneers the heart down with the scohing brain; Woe worth the peering, analytic days

That dry the tender juices in the breast,

And put the thunders of the Lord to test, [praise, So that no marvel must be, and no

Nor any God except Necessity. What can ye give my poor stained life in lieu Of this dead cherub which I slew for ye!

Take back your doubtful wisdom and renew [dunce, My early foolish freshness of the Whose simple instincts guessed the heavens at once.

Charles F.


Think not your duty done when, sad and tearful, Your heart recounts its sins, And praying God for pardon, weak and fearful, Its better life begins,

Nor rest content when, braver grown and stronger, Your days are sweet and pure, Because you follow evil ways no longer, In Christ's defence secure.

Bethink you then, but not with fruitless ruing, —That bids the past be still, But what your life has wrought to men's undoing, By influence for ill.

Go forth, and dare not rest until the morrow, But, lest it be too late, Seek out the hearts whose weight of sin and sorrow Through you has grown more great.

Take gifts to all of love and reparation.

Or if it may not be,


Pray Christ, with ceaseless lips, to send salvation Till each chained soul be free.


Brave spirit, that will brook no intervention, But thus alone before thy God dost stand,

Content if he but see thy heart's intention, — Why spurn the suppliant knee and outstretched hand?

Sweet soul, that kneelest in the solemn glory Of yon cathedral altar, while the prayer

Of priest or bishop tells thine own heart's story, — Why think that they alone heaven's • keys may bear?

Man worships with the heart; for wheresoever One burning pulse of heartfelt homage stirs.

There God shall straightway find his own, and never In church or desert, miss his worshippers.


If, when you labor all the day,
You see its minutes slip away
With joy unfound, with work undone,
And hope descending with the sun,

Then cheerily lie down to rest:
The longest work shall be the best;
And when the morrow greets your

With strong and patient heart arise.

For Patience, stern and leaden-eyed, Looks far where future joys abide; Nor sees short sadness at her feet, For sight of triumph long and sweet.


Where shall we find a perfect life, whereby

To shape our lives for all eternity?

This man is great and wise; the world reveres him, Reveres, but cannot love his heart of stone;

And so it dares not follow, though it fears him, But bids him walk his mountain path alone.

That man is good and gentle; all men love him, Yet dare not ask his feeble arm for aid;

The world's best work is ever far above him, He shrinks beneath the stormcapped mountain shade.

O loveless strength! O strengthless love! the Master Whose life shall shape our lives is not as thou: Sweet Friend in peace, strong Saviour in disaster, Our heart of hearts enfolds thine image now!

Be Christ's the fair and perfect life whereby

We shape our lives for all eternity.


A Hundred noble wishes fill my heart,

I long to help each soul in need of aid;

In all good works my zeal would have its part,

Before no weight of toil it stands afraid.

But noble wishes are not noble deeds,

And he does least who seeks to do

the whole; Who works the best, his simplest

duties heeds, Who moves the world, first moves

a single soul.

Then go, my heart, thy plainest work begin,

Do first not what thou canst, but

what thou must; Build not upon a corner-stone of sin, Nor seek great works until thou

first be just.

Sarah Roberts.


Here I come creeping, creeping
By the dusty roadside,
On the sunny hill-side,
Close by the noisy brook,

In every shady brook, I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere; All around the open door,

Where sit the aged poor;
Here where the children play,
In the bright and merry May,
I come creeping, creeping every-

Here I come creeping, creeping every-
In the noisy city street,
My pleasant face you'll meet,
Cheering the sick at heart
Toiling his busy part —
Silently creeping, creeping every-

Here I come creeping, creeping every-
You cannot see me coming,
Nor hear my low sweet humming;
For in the starry night,
And the glad morning light,

I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

More welcome than the flowers

In summer's pleasant hours; The gentle cow is glad, And the merry bird not sad, To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

When you're numbered with the dead

In your still and narrow bed,
In the happy spring I'll come
And deck your silent home —
Creeping, silently creeping every-

Here I come creeping, creeping every-
My humble song of praise
Most joyfully I raise
To Him at whose command
I beautify the land,
Creeping, silently creeping every-

Samuel Rogers.

Six Poems entitled by the author, "Reflections."


Alas, to our discomfort and his own,
Oft are the greatest talents to be found
In a fool's keeping. For what else
is he,

However worldly wise and worldly strong,

Who can pervert and to the worst


The noblest means to serve the noblest ends 1 Who can employ the gift of eloquence,

That sacred gift, to dazzle and delude;

Or, if achievement in the field be his, Climb but to gain a loss, suffering

how much, And how much more inflicting! Every where,

Cost what they will, such cruel freaks

are played; And hence the turmoil in this world

of ours,

The turmoil never ending, still beginning,

The wailing and the tears.— When

Caesar came, He who could master all men but


Who did so much and could so well

record it; [ part.

Even he, the most applauded in his Who, when he spoke, all things

summed up in him, Spoke to convince, nor ever, when

he fought, Fought but to conquer,— what a life

was his,

Slaying so many, to be slain at last; A life of trouble and incessant toil, And all to gain what is far better missed 1


The heart, the;i say, is wiser than

the schools: And well they may. All that is great

in thought, That strikes at once as with electric


And lifts us, as it were, from earth to heaven,

Comes from the heart; and who confesses not

Its voice as sacred, nay, almost divine,

When inly it declares on what we do,

Blaming, approving? Let an erring world

Judge as it will, we care not while

we stand Acquitted there; and oft, when

clouds on clouds Compass us round and not a track


Oft is an upright heart the surest


Surer and better than the subtlest head;

Still with its silent counsels through

the dark Onward and onward leading.


This child, so lovely and so cherublike,

(No fairer spirit in the heaven of heavens)

Say, must he know remorse? Must

passion come, Passion in all or any of its shapes, To cloud and sully what is now so


Yes, come it must. For who, alas! has lived,

Nor in the watches of the night recalled

Words he has wished unsaid and

deeds undone? Yes, come it must. But if, as we

may hope, He learns ere long to discipline his


And onward goes, humbly and cheerfully,

Assisting them that faint, weak

though he be, And in his trying hours trusting in


Fair as he is, he shall be fairer still; For what was innocence will then be virtue.


Man to the last is but a froward child;

So eager for the future, come what may,

And to the present so insensible! Oh, if he could in all things as he would,

Years would as days, and hours as

moments, be; He would, so restless is his spirit


Give wings to time, and wish his life away!


Oh, if the selfish knew how much they lost,

What would they not endeavor, not endure,

To imitate, as far as in them lay, Him who his wisdom and his power

employs In making others happy!


Hence to the altar and with her thou lov'st,

With her who longs to strew thy way with flowers;

Nor lose the blessed privilege to give

Birth to a race immortal as yourselves,

Which trained by you, shall make a

heaven on earth, And tread the path that leads from

earth to heaven.

(From Human Life.]


And such is Human Life; so, gliding on,

It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!

Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,

As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change,

As any that the wandering tribes require,

Stretched in the desert round their evening fire;

As any sung of old in hall or bower

To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour! Born in a trance, we wake, observe, inquire;

And the green earth, the azure sky admire.

Of elfin-size,— for ever as we run, We cast a longer shadow in the sun! And now a charm, and now a grace is won!

We grow in stature, and in wisdom too!

And, as new scenes, new objects rise to view,

Think nothing done while aught remains to do. Yet, all forgot, how oft the eyelids close,

And from the slack hand drops the

gathered rose! How oft, as dead, on the warm turf

we lie,

While many an emmet comes with

curious eye; And on her nest the watchful wren

sits by!

Nor do we speak or move, or hear or see;

So like what once we were, and once

again shall be! And say, how soon, where, blithe

as innocent, The boy at sunrise carolled as he


An aged pilgrim on his staff shall lean,

Tracing in vain the footsteps o'er the green;

The man himself how altered, not

the scene! Now journeying home with nothing

but the name; Wayworn and spent, another and

the same! No eye observes the growth or the


To-day we look as we did yesterday; And we shall look to-morrow as today.

[From Human Life.]

TRUE Union:

Then before all they stand,— the holy vow

And ring of gold, no fond illusions now,

Bind her as his. Across the threshold led,

And every tear kissed off as soon as shed,

His house she enters,— there to be a light

Shining within, when all without is night;

A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding,

Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing;

Winning him back, when mingling

in the throng. From a vain world we love, alas, too


To fireside happiness, and hours of ease

Blest with that charm, the certainty

to please. How oft her eyes read his; her gentle


To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined;

Still subject,— ever on the watch to borrow

Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow.

The soul of music slumbers in the shell,

Till waked and kindled by the master's spell;

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