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With what sweet looks doth Thy love ftiine
On those low violets of Thine,
While the tall tulip is accurft,
And crown-imperials die with thirft!
O give me ftill those secret meals,
Those rare repafts 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 ruft, and rags, and dregs.

"For whom the Lord loveth he chafteneth." — Hebrews xxii. 6.

From the world's flatteries false, and leer?

Henry Vaughan. ' 1622-1695.



Or who that weeps befide a bier
Counts he has any more to fear

And yet anon and he doth ftart

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 mameful cure,—

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

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

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

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

Low have these ears before the fickle lain,
Ere thou canft treasure up the golden grain.

The grain is crufhed 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 crufhed, and to be broken so,

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

R. C. Trench.


THEREFORE, O friend! I would not, if I might,
Rebuild my house of lies wherein I joyed
One time to dwell; my soul fhall walk in white,
Caft down, but not deftroyed.

Therefore in patience I pofless my soul;

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

But in a diftant place.

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

The cup is bitter, yet He makes it sweet; My face is fteadfaft 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 ftorehouses
God fhall bring new and old.

Beauty for afhes, oil of joy for grief,

Garment of praise for spirit of heaviness;

Although to-day I fade as doth a leaf,
I languifh and grow less.

Although to-day He prunes my twigs with pain,
Yet doth His blood nourifh and warm my root; .

To-morrow I fhall put forth buds again,
And clothe myself with fruit.

Although to-day I walk in tedious ways, —
To-day His ftaff is turned into a rod, —

Yet will I wait for Him the appointed days,
And ftay upon my God.

Chrijlina Rojfetti.


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 flies; Then fhall a sunrise follow, mild and fair.

Through ftorm to calm ! — And though His thunder-car
The rumbling tempeft drive through earth and fky,

Good cheer! good cheer! The elemental war
Tells that a blefled healing hour is nigh.

Through froft to spring! — And though the biting blaft

Of Eurus ftifFen Nature's juicy veins, Good cheer! good cheer! When winter's wrath is part,

Soft, murmuring spring breathes sweetly o'er the plains.

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