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Through strife to peace! — And though, with bristling front,

A thousand frightful deaths encompass thee, Good cheer! good cheer! Brave thou the battle's brunt,

For the peace-march and song of victory.

Through sweat to sleep! — And though the sultry noon

With heavy, drooping wing oppress thee now, Good cheer! good cheer! The cool of evening soon

Shall lull to sweet repose thy weary brow.

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Through woe to joy! — And though at morn thou weep,

And though the midnight finds thee weeping still, Good cheer! good cheer! The Shepherd loves his sheep:

Resign thee to the watchful Father's will.

Through death to life !— And through this vale of tears,

And through this thistle-field of life, ascend To the great supper in that world whose years Of bliss unfading, cloudless, know no end.


THEN darkness long has veiled my mind,

And smiling day once more appears, Then, my Creator! then I find

The folly of my doubts and fears.

Straight I upbraid my wandering heart,

And blush that I should ever be Thus prone to act so base a part,

Or harbor one hard thought of Thee.

O, let me then at length be taught

What I am still so flow to learn, — That God is love, and changes not,

Nor knows the shadow of a turn.

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But, O my God! one look from Thee

Subdues the disobedient will, Drives doubt and discontent away, And thy rebellious child is still.

William Cowper. 1779.

and dise child is Cowper


Y God, my Father! while I stray,

1 Far from my home, on life's rough way, O teach me from my heart to say,

" Thy will be done ! ”

Though dark my path, and sad my lot, Let me “be still,” and murmur not, Or breathe the prayer, divinely taught,

“Thy will be done!”

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Renew my will from day to day,
Blend it with thine, and take away
All now that makes it hard to say,

“Thy will be done ! ”

Then, when on earth I breathe no more
The prayer, oft mixed with tears before,
I'll fing upon a happier shore,
“ Thy will be done!”.

Charlotte Elliott.


JUDGE not; the workings of his brain

And of his heart thou canst not see ;
What looks to thy dim eyes a stain

In God's pure light may only be
A scar, brought from some well-won field,
Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.

The look, the air, that frets thy fight

May be a token that below

The soul has closed in deadly fight

With some infernal fiery foe, Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace, And cast thee shuddering on thy face !

The fall thou darest to despise, —.

May be the angel's Nackened hand
Has suffered it, that he may rise

And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.

And judge none loft; but wait and see,

With hopeful pity, not disdain ; The depth of the abyss may be

The measure of the height of pain And love and glory that may raise This soul to God in after days!

Miss A. A. Procter.

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