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On us thy spirit haft thou poured;

To us thy word has come;
We feel, we bless, thy quickening, Lord!

Thou fhalt not find us dumb.

Thou comeft near; thou ftandeft by;

Our work begins to fhine;
Thou dwellef t with us mightily,—

On come the years divine!

T. H. Gill.


OSOMETIMES gleams upon our fight,
Through present wrong, the Eternal Right!
And ftep by ftep, fince time began,
We see the fteady gain of man ; —

That all of good the paft hath had
Remains to make our own time glad,
Our common daily life divine,
And every land a Paleftine.

We lack but open eye and ear
To find the Orient's marvels here,—
The ftill small voice in autumn's hufh,
Yon maple wood the burning bum.

For ftill the new transcends the old,
In figns and tokens manifold:
Slaves rise up men; the olive waves
With roots deep set in battle graves.

Through the harm noises of our day
A low, sweet prelude finds its way;
Through clouds of doubt and creeds of fear
A light is breaking, calm and clear.

Henceforth my heart mall figh no more
For olden time and holier more;
God's love and blefling, then and there,
Are now, and here, and everywhere.

J. G. Whittier.


THE day of the Lord is at hand, at hand,
The ftorms roll up the fky;
A nation fleeps ftarving on heaps of gold,

All dreamers toss and figh.
When the pain is soreft, the child is born,
And the day is darkeft before the morn

Of the day of the Lord at hand.

Gather you, gather you, angels of God;

Chivalry, Juftice, and Truth;
Come, for the earth is grown coward and old;

Come down and renew us her youth!
Freedom, Self-sacrifice, Mercy, and Love,
Hafte to the battle-field, ftoop from above,
To the day of the Lord at hand.

Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell, —

Famine, and Plague, and War;
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule,

Gather,—and fall in the snare!
Hirelings and Mammonites, Pedants and Knaves,
Crawl to the battle, or sneak to your graves,
In the day of the Lord at hand.

Who would fit down and whine for a loft Age of Gold

While the Lord of all ages is here?
True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God,

And those who can suffer can dare.
Each paft Age of Gold was an iron age too,
And the meekeft of saints may find ftern work to do
In the day of the Lord at hand.

Rev. Charles Kingfley.


MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are ftored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of His terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnifhed rows of fteel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace mall deal;

Let the Hero, born of woman, crufh the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that fhall never call retreat;

He is fifting out the hearts of men before His judgmentseat:

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Chrift was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on.

Mrs. Julia Ward Howe.


WE see not, know not; all our way
Is night: with Thee alone is day.
From out the torrent's troubled drift,
Above the ftorm our prayer we lift,
Thy will be done!

The flefh may fail, the heart may faint,
But who are we to make complaint,
Or dare to plead in times like these
The weakness of our love of ease?
Thy will be done!

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