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With what sweet looks doth Thy love shine
On those low violets of Thine,
While the tall tulip is accurst,
And crown-imperials die with thirst!
O give me still those secret meals,
Those rare repasts which Thy love deals!
Give me that joy which none can grieve,
And which in all griefs doth relieve.
This is the portion Thy child begs;
Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.

Henry Vaughan. ' 1622 – 1695.

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W

H O, that a watcher doth remain VV Beside a couch of mortal pain, Deems he can ever smile again?

Or who that weeps beside a bier
Counts he has any more to fear
From the world's flatteries false, and leer?

And yet anon and he doth start
At the light toys in which his heart
Can now already claim its part.

O heart of ours ! so weak and poor,
That nothing there can long endure ;
And so their hurts find shameful cure,

While every sadder, wiser thought,
Each holier aim which sorrow brought,
Fades quite away, and comes to naught.

O Thou who dost our weakness know,
Watch for us, that the strong hours so
Not wean us from our wholesome woe.

Grant Thou that we may long retain
The wholesome memories of pain,
Nor wish to lose them soon again.

Richard Chenevix Trench.

eva

PATIENCE.

LIFE SPRINGING FROM DEATH.

THE seed must die before the corn appears 1 Out of the ground, in blade and fruitful ears.

Low have these ears before the sickle lain,
Ere thou canst treasure up the golden grain.

The grain is crushed before the bread is made,
And the bread broke ere life to man conveyed.

O be content to die, to be laid low,
And to be crushed, and to be broken so,

If thou upon God's table mayst be bread,
Life-giving food for souls an hungeréd.

R. C. Trench.

A CITY THAT HATH FOUNDATIONS.

THEREFORE, O friend! I would not, if I might,

1 Rebuild my house of lies wherein I joyed One time to dwell; my soul shall walk in white,

Cast down, but not destroyed.

Therefore in patience I possess my soul;

Yea, therefore as a Aint I set my face,
To pluck down, to build up again the whole, —

But in a distant place.

The thorns are sharp, yet I can tread on them ;

The cup is bitter, yet He makes it sweet; My face is steadfast toward Jerusalem,

My heart remembers it.

I lift the hanging hands, the feeble knees, –

I, precious more than seven times molten gold, Until the day when from his storehouses

God shall bring new and old.

Beauty for ashes, oil of joy for grief,

Garment of praise for spirit of heaviness ; Although to-day I fade as doth a leaf,

I languish and grow less.

Although to-day He prunes my twigs with pain,

Yet doth His blood nourish and warm my root; . To-morrow I shall put forth buds again,

And clothe myself with fruit.

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o mort

THROUGH night to light!— And though to mortal - eyes

Creation's face a pall of horror wear, Good cheer! good cheer! The gloom of midnight Aies ;

Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair.

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