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But now the stream has reached

A dark, deep sea, And Sorrow, dim and crowned,

Is waiting thee.

Each of God's soldiers bears

A sword divine: Stretch out thy trembling hands

To-day for thine !

To each anointed Priest

God's summons came : O soul, He speaks to-day,

And calls thy name.

Then, with flow, reverent step,

And beating heart, From out thy joyous days

Thou must depart,

And, leaving all behind,

Come forth alone, To join the chosen band

Around the throne.

Raise up thine eyes, — be strong,

Nor cast away
The crown that God has given
Thy soul to-day!

Miss A. A. Procter.

« ONLY A YEAR."

NE year ago, - a ringing voice,
U A clear blue eye,
And clustering curls of sunny hair,

Too fair to die.

Only a year, — no voice, no smile,

No glance of eye,
No clustering curls of golden hair,

Fair but to die !

One year ago, — what loves, what schemes

Far into life!
What joyous hopes, what high resolves,

What generous strife!

The silent picture on the wall, w ine but The burial stone,

life and joy. Of all that beauty, life, and joy,

Remain alone!

One year, — one year, — one little year,

And so much gone!
And yet the even flow of life

Moves calmly on.

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,

Above that head;
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray

Says he is dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds

That fing above
Tells us how coldly sleeps below

The form we love.

Where haft thou been this year, beloved ?

What haft thou seen?
What visions fair, what glorious life,

Where thou hast been?

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Not dead, not neeping, not even gone ;

But present still,
And waiting for the coming hour

Of God's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead,

Our Saviour dear !
We lay in silence at thy feet
This sad, sad year!

Mrs. H. B. Stowe.

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Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill
He treasures up his bright designs,

And works his sovereign will.

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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust him for his grace ; . Behind a frowning Providence

He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain ;
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.

William Cowper. 1779.

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