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Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close

not thy eyes Up with thy curtains; give thy soul

the wing

In some good thoughts; so when thy

day shall rise, And thou unrakest thy fire, those sparks will bring New flaines; besides where these

lodge, vain heats mourn And die; that bush, where God is, shall not burn.

TO HIS BOOKS.

Bright books! the perspectives to

our weak sights, The clear projections of discerning

lights.

Burning and shining thoughts, man's

posthume day, The track of fled souls, and their

milky way, voice The dead alive' and busy, the still Of enlarged spirits, kind Heaven's

white decoys! Who lives with you lives like those

knowing flowers, Which in commerce with light spend

all their hours; Which shut to clouds, and shadows

nicely shun, But with glad haste unveil to kiss

the sun. (night. Beneath you all is dark, and a dead Which whoso lives in, wants both

health and sight. By sucking you, the wise, like bees,

do grow

Healing and rich, though this they

do most slow, Because most choicely; for as great a

store

Have we of books as bees of herbs, or more:

And the great task to try, then know, the good,

To discern weeds, and judge of

wholesome food, Is a rare scant performance. For

man dies

Oft ere 'us done, while the bee feeds

and flies. But you were al! choice flowers; all

set and dressed By old sage florists, who well kr.ew

the best;

And I amidst you all am turned a weed,

Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.

Then thank thyself, wild fool, that

would'st not be Content to know — what was tco

much for thee!

LIKE AS A NURSE.

Even as a nurse, whose child's impatient pace

Can hardly had his feet from place to place,

Leaves her fond kissing, sets him

down to go, Nor does uphold him for a step or

two;

But when she finds that he begins to fall,

She holds him up and kisses him withal;

So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand

Awhile, to teach his infant faith to stand;

But when He sees his feeble strength begin

To fail, He gently takes him up again.

Jones

NATURE. .

The bubbling brook doth leap when

I come by. Because my feet find measure with

its call;

The birds know when the friend they love is nigh.

For I am known to them, both great and small.

The flower that on the lonely hillside grows

Expects me there when spring its bloom has given;

And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,

And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;

For he who with his Maker walks aright,

Shall be their lord as Adam was before;

His ear shall catch each sound with

new delight, Each object wear the dress that then

it wore;

And he, as when erect in soul he stood,

Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.

THE WORLD.

'Tis all a great show,

The world that we're in —
None can tell when 'twas finished,

None saw it begin;
Men wander and gaze through

Its courts and its halls,
Like children whose love is

The picture-hung walls.

There are flowers in the meadow,
There are clouds in the sky —

Songs pour from the woodland,
The waters glide by:

Very.

Too many, too many

For eye or for ear, The sights that we see,

And the sounds that we hear.

A weight as of slumber

Comes down on the mind; So swift is life's train

To its objects we're blind; I myself am but one

In the fleet-gliding show — Like others I walk,

But know not where I go.

One saint to another

I heard say " How long?" I listened, but nought more

I heard of his song; The shadows are walking

Through city and plain,— How long shall the night

And its shadow remain?

How long ere shall shine,

In this glimmer of things, The light of which prophet

In prophecy sings? And the gates of that city

Be open, w hose sun No more to the west

Its circuit shall run!

HOME AND HEAVEN.

With the same letter heaven and

home begin, And the words dwell together in the

mind;

For they who would a home in heaven win,

Must first a heaven in home begin to find.

Be happy here, yet with a humble soul

That looks for perfect happiness in heaven;

For what thou hast is earnest of the whole

Which to the faithful shall at last be given.

As once the patriarch, in a vision blessed.

Saw the swift angels hastening to and fro,

And the lone spot whereon he lay to rest

Became to him the gate of heaven below;

So may to thee, when life itself is done,

Thy home on earth and heaven above be one.

Edmund

OLD AGE AND DEATH.

The seas are quiet when the winds

give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no

more. [to boast

For then we know how vain it was Of fleeting things, too certain to be

lost.

Clouds of affection from our younger

eyes

Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,

Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, I home.

As they draw near to their eternal

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,

That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Waller.

THE ROSE.

Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth —
Suffer herself to be desired.
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee — How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair. Augusta

ON A G1DDLE.

That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale w hich held that lovely dear,
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all w ithin this circle move.

A narrow compass, and yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair;
Give me but what this riband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

FROM " A ritEA CHER."

I Know not how it is; I take the faith in earnest, I believe, Even at happy times I think I love, I try to pattern me upon the type My Master left us, am no hypocrite Playing my soul against good men's

applause, Nor monger of the Gospel for a cure, But serve a Master whom I chose

because

It seemed to me I loved Him, whom till now

My longing is to love; and yet I feel A falseness somewhere clogging me. I seem

Divided from myself; I can speak words

Of burning faith and fire myself with them;

I can, while upturned faces gaze on me

As if I were their Gospel manifest. Break into unplanned turns as natural

As the blind man's cry for healing, pass beyond

My bounded manhood in the earnestness

Of a messenger from God. And then I come

And in my study's quiet find again The callous actor who, because long since

He had some feelings in him like the talk

The book puts in his mouth, still warms his pit

And even, in his lucky moods, himself,

With the passion of his part, but

lays aside His heroism with his satin suit And thinks "the part is good and

well conceived And very natural — no flaw to find" And then forgets it.

Webster.

Yes, I preach to others And am — I know not what — a castaway?

No, but a man who feels his heart asleep.

As he might feel his hand or foot.

To-night now I might triumph. Not a breath

But shivered when I pictured the

dead soul Awakening when the body dies, to

know

Itself has lived too late; and drew in long

With yearning when I showed how

perfect love Might make Earth's self be but an

. earlier Heaven. And I may say and not be over-bold, Judging from former fruits, "bome

one to-night Has come more near to God, some

one has felt What it may mean to love Him,

some one learned A new great horror against death

and sin,

Some one at least — it may be many."

And yet, I know not why it is, this knack

Of sermon-making seems to carry me

Athwart the truth at times before I know —

In little things at least; thank God

the greater Have not yet grown, by the familiar

use,

Such puppets of a phrase as to slip

Without clear recognition. Take tonight —

I preached a careful sermon, gravely planned,

[graphic]

All of it written. Not a line was meant

To fit the mood of any differing From my own judgment: not the

less I find — (I thought of it coming home while

my good Jane Talked of the Shetland pony I must

get

For the boys to learn to ride:) yes,

here it is, And here again on this page — blame

by rote,

Where by my private judgment I

blame not. "We think our own thoughts on this

day," I said, "Harmless it may be, kindly even,

still

Not Heaven's thoughts — not Sunday

thoughts I'll say." Well now, do I, now that I think of

it,

Advise a separation of our thoughts By Sundays and by week-days, Heaven's and ours? Bv no means, for I think the bar is bad.

I'll teach my children "Keep all

thinkings pure, And think them when you like, if

but the time Is free to any thinking. Think of

God

So often that in anything you do
It cannot seem you have forgotten
Him,

Just as you would not have forgotten us,

Your mother and myself, although

your thoughts Were not distinctly on us, while you

played;

And, if you do this, in the Sunday's rest

You will most naturally think of Him."

Then here again "the pleasures of

the world That tempt the younger members of

my flock." Now I think really that they've not

enough

Of these same pleasures. Gray and

joyless lives A many of them have, whom I would

see

Sharing the natural gayeties of youth. I wish they'd more temptations of the kind.

Now Donne and Allan preach such

things as these Meaning them and believing. As for

me,

What did I mean? Neither to feign

nor teach A Phansaic service, "Twas just this, That there are lessons and rebukes

long made So much a thing of course that, un

observing, One sets them down as one puts dots

to i's. Crosses to Vs.

[From A Painter.]

THE ARTIST'S DREAD OF BLINDNESS.

How one can live on beauty and be rich

Having only that! — a thing not hard to find,

For all the world is beauty. We

know that. We painters, we whom God shows

how to see. We have beauty ours, we take it

where we go. Ay, my wise critics, rob me of my

bread,

You can do that, but of my birthright, no.

Imprison me away from skies and seas,

And the open sight of earth and her rich life,

And the lesson of a face or golden hair:

I'll find it for you on a whitewashed wall,

Where the slow shadows only change so much

As shows the street has different

darknesses At noontime and at twilight.

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